A  MASQUE  OF  LOVE 


BY 


CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT  WOOD 


WALTER  M.  HILL 
CHICAGO 

1904 


Copyright  1904 
ByC.E.S.Wood 


THE  FIRST  PART 

OF  THE 
MASQUE  OF  LOVE 


A  MASQUE  OF  LOVE.  THE  FIRST  PART. 

SCENE  I.  EVE  AT  THE  FOREST'S  EDGE. 

VE.  This  kissing  air  is  medicined  with 
flowers  and  gently  sweet,  but  soothes 
me  not.  Palm  and  brow  and  'twixt  my 
breasts  are  moist  and  I  am  heavy  with 
oppression  of  I  know  not  what.  'Twas 
yestereve  I  watched  two  wrens  caress,  and  when  she 
hopped  into  the  aged  beech,  he,  swollen  to  a  feather 
ball,  did  mad  himself  with  song  from  his  sky -pointed 
bill.  And  then  I  watched  the  dark-browed  Night, 
with  quiet  fingers,  don  her  diadem.  Mine  eyes  did 
question  hers,  and  as  the  hours  in  slow  procession 
dragged  I  sighed— and  turned  and  sighed  again,  till 
one  by  one  mine  eyes  put  out  the  stars,  my  hungering 
unanswered  still. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Sister! 
EVE.  Who  speaks? 
SOUTH  WIND.  'Tis  I,  — thy  sister. 
EVE.  I  see  you  not. 
SOUTH  WIND.  I'm  here. 

EVE.  Ha!  Sprang  you  from  the  solid  earth  or  wert 
thou  coined  from  air?  You  come  as  comes  the  dew. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Here,  sister,  feel  my  hand.  I  came 
to  heal  thy  ache. 

EVE.  How  soft!  You  smell  most  sweet. 
SOUTH  WIND.  I  slept  among  the  honeysuckles 
yesternight.  And  thou  art  sick? 
EVE.  I'm  sad.  I  had  a  buck  with  little  horns  like 
buds.  He  trotted  after  me  on  slim-propped  legs, — 
his  wet  nose  put  into  my  hands,  and  answered  me 
with  sad  brown  eyes.  But  now  three  days,  there 

5 


came  from  out  the  hazel  bush  a  sleek  young  doe 

that  stood  and  looked  and  sniffed.  She  bounded  off 

and  he  did  burst  from  me  to  follow  her, — nor  came 

he  back. 

SOUTH  WIND.  We'll  catch  a  dappled  fawn. 

EVE.  I  did  use  at  night  to  touch  his  velvet  head. 

I  think  the  night  breeds  with  the  yellow  swamp  and 

sweet  fern  beds,  which  makes  the  cool  and  moisty 

air  smell  sweetly  of  the  earth. 

SOUTH  WIND.  I  think  so  too.  That  is  my  sister's 

bridal.  Come!  We'll  get  a  fawn  for  thee. 

EVE.  I  want  it  not.  I  think  I'm  sick. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Aye,  unto  death  and  life.  I  know 

a  poison  good  for  thee.  Come  thou  with  me. 

[Exeunt] 

SCENE  II.  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE. 

Enter  Hubert,  a  black  bearskin  on  his  arm.  (Sings.) 

|  HE  Lark  doth  sing  from  top  of  tree, 

So  merrily,  so  merrily. 

Come!  Come!  the  sun  is  coming! 
And  I  sing  out  with  song  and  shout, 
For  woods  are  green  and  brooks  are  running. 

The  blackbird  sings  from  slender  reed, 

So  merrily,  so  merrily. 

Come!  Come!  the  sun  is  coming! 

And  so  sing  I  unto  the  sky 

For  woods  are  green  and  brooks  are  running. 

The  speckled  thrush  sings  in  the  bush, 
So  merrily,  so  merrily. 
Come!  Come!  the  sun  is  coming! 
6 


Three  eggs  do  rest  within  the  nest 

And  woods  are  green  and  brooks  are  running. 

Down,  Dropear.  Down,  good  Swiftfoot.  Down — 
would  eat  me  pets?  Do  think  I  sing  to  ye.  So,  so. 
Now  sing  ye  back,  my  beauties,  pretties,  glossy  ones. 
Down,  down  I  say;  I  wonder  would  ye  tear  our 
little  doe  if  ye  should  meet  her  in  the  wild?  I'll  fear 
to  strike  a  doe  again  lest  it  be  she.  What  whimsy 
led  her  to  be  gone?  (Sings) 

Ah,  the  woods  are  green, 

They're  a  pretty,  pretty  green, 

But  soon  they  shall  be  yellow, 

Be  not  too  late,  ye  little  birds,  which  mate 

But  find  your  pretty  fellow. 

Your  pretty,  pretty,  pretty  mate, 

Your  pretty,  pretty  fellow. 

Down,  white-toothed  ones.  Must  ye  still  leap  upon 
the  she  bear's  empty  hide?  I  like  not  mountain  tops, 
the  air  about  them  hath  a  loneliness.  Good  Dropear, 
down!  'Twas  hot  blistering  work  above  the  clouds; 
the  sun  untamed;  the  glistening,  eternal  snow:  the 
milky,  melting  streams  a-snarling  o'er  the  naked 
rocks.  The  eagles  far  below;  the  woods  like  deep 
piled  velvet  spread  about  the  mountain's  loins.  And 
there,  we  dragged  her  from  her  den, — this  hairy 
ravager  of  herds, — and  here's  her  hide.  I  like  not 
those  too  fearful  heights  above  the  haunts  of  men. 
The  forest's  calm  I  love — this  great,  green  prayer 
which  spreads  itself  like  upturned  palms.  Back! 
Back!  My  Pretties.  Yours  is  lower  down  to  drink, 
and  give  your  bellies  to  the  splashing  stream.  I'll 
to  the  Forest's  Eye.  [Exit] 

7 


SCENE  III.  A  FLOWER  SPRINKLED 
MEADOW. 

South  Wind  and  Eve. 

|OUTH  WIND.  Here  in  this  gilded  mead 

we  find  thy  medicine. 

EVE.  How  shall  I  know? 
SOUTH  WIND.  How  knows  the  panting  dog  what 
water  is?  And  how  doth  know  the  adder-smitten 
boar  what  weed  to  chew  to  cure  his  hurt?  Surely 
thou  shalt  know.  Did'st  note  that  laurel  catch  thy 
scarf  and  lay  her  pearly  bells  against  thy  thigh? 
She  sighed  that  it  was  whiter,  bade  me  give  you  joy, 
and  asked  that  in  your  joy  you  do  be  mindful  of  her. 
She  was  a  woman  once,  her  heart  still  swells  with 
nameless  summer  hunger  like  to  thine. 
EVE.  Poor  laurel! 

SOUTH  WIND.  How  like  a  mimic  world  this  glade. 
The  monarch  oaks,  deep-rooted  in  submissive  soil, 
cast  haughty  shade  about  them,  killing  off  whatever 
in  the  circle  of  their  empery  would  share  their  proud 
monopoly  of  sun  and  rain ;  the  courtier  buttercups,  in 
gilded  cloaks  aflaunt,  just  at  the  verge  and  bowing 
in  the  sun — and  woodbine  sycophantic — climbing 
to  the  sun  upon  the  oaks'  great  strength,  and  lichened 
rocks  which  thrust  their  lowly  snouts  into  this  wav 
ing  pageantry  of  privilege  as  if  the  humblest  showed 
their  teeth  and  said,  beware —  Why  look  you  so? 
EVE.  I  hear  the  splashing  of  some  fearsome  beast. 
SOUTH  WIND.  The  beast  most  fearsome;  dost 
thou  long  to  be  devoured? 
EVE.  No!  No! 

SOUTH  WIND.  In  time,  in  time! 
8 


EVE.  Oh,  no! 

SOUTH  WIND.  Peep  through  this  leafy  screen  and 

thou  shalt  see  a  sleeping  pool,  upon  whose  lips  the 

vain,  tall  birches  tiptoe  stand  and  lean  to  see  their 

silver  mail. 

EVE.  Ah!  Ah! 

SOUTH  WIND.  Thou  tremblest.  What  hast  thou 

seen?  Speak! 

EVE.  Oh,  hush!  Thou  wilt  affright  it.  'Tis  a  god  at 

play.  A  god  a-splash  within  the  pool  that  clings  to 

him.  His  legs  like  ivory  columns  in  the  pool  that 

dimples  them.  His  back  an  ivory  shield.  His  breast 

an  ivory  wall.  His  lips,  his  nose,  his  eyes,  his  curled 

brown  hair  with  water  drops  a-glisten.  All  a  god.  I 

would  that  I  might  touch  him  ere  I  die. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Thou  shalt. 

EVE.  Nay. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Hell  kiss  thy  feet.    Come  thou 

with  me. 

EVE.  Mock  me  not. 

[Exeunt  Eve  and  South  Wind.  Enter  Hubert.  He 

spreads  a  bear  skin  on  the  cushioned  grass  and 

sleeps,  a  hound  on  either  side.    Enter  Eve  and 

South  Wind.] 

EVE.  How  like  the  purest  marble  shines  he  on  that 

ebon  couch.  He  sleeps. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Come  thou,  we'll  kneel  beside  him. 

EVE.  Beautiful!  How  soft,  yet  firm,  he  seems.  I'd 

see  his  eyes,  but  fear  to  see  the  blue-veined  shutters 

lift. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Fear  not,  my  spell  is  on  them  too. 

EVE.  He's  warm. 

SOUTH  WIND.  As  warm  as  thou. 

9 


EVE.  Will  he  not  wake? 

SOUTH  WIND.  Not  tho'  it  thunder.  Not  tho'  thou 
should'st  kill  him. 
EVE.  O! 

SOUTH  WIND.  Fear  not. 

EVE.  I've  touched  him,  felt  his  polished  limbs,  and 
pressed  my  cheek  upon  his  breast,  my  heaviness  all 
oozing  out  to  him,  my  feet  so  light,  I  think  yon  pale 
blue  bed  of  irises  would  bear  me  up. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Come,  stricken  one,  with  me. 
EVE.  If  stricken,  'tis  with  joy.  Hark!  to  the  oriole! 
Above  his  swinging  pouch  on  yon  great  drooping 
elm  he  whistles  to  the  falling  sun.  Once  more,  once 
more.  Now  come!  To-night  I'll  be  at  peace.  I  need 
no  medicine  of  fern  or  flag  or  swampy  root:  my 
fever's  gone,  there  is  no  need. 
SOUTH  WIND.  There  is  no  further  need,  'tis  true, 
and  yet  much  need.  [Exeunt] 

HUBERT  (Awaking)  I've  slept  a  heavy  sleep,  as  if 
I  died  and  visions  came  most  fair,  but  dimming  now 
upon  my  memory.  How  sweet  it  smells  of  lilacs 
and  of  clover-fields  afar.  Yet  here  should  only  be 
the  smell  of  moss  and  grass,  moist  earth,  and  summer 
leaves.  The  air  hath  witchery.  Awake!  ye  dull  and 
foolish  sentinels!  Dropear!  Swiftfoot!  Bad  dogs. 
Some  one  has  passed  upon  the  grass  and  left  sweet 
smell,  perhaps  a  nymph.  Tis  mystery. 
OAK  HEART.  Aye,  mystery. 
HUBERT.  Hullo! 

OAK  HEART.  'Tis  I,  the  friend  whose  arms  have 
sheltered  thee  since  first  you  lay  upon  the  earth  and 
plucked  the  grass,  whose  fruit  you've   chewed, 
whose  gnarled  roots  have  pillowed  thee. 
10 


HUBERT.  Friend,  show  thyself. 
OAK  HEART.  'Tis  well!  Canst  thou  not  see  a  six 
foot  oak,  rough  barked  and  grey  with  centuries? 
HUBERT.  Art  thou  the  oak? 
OAK  HEART.  Nine  generations  of  thy  kind  have 
crept  to  rest  beneath  my  roots:  my  roots  have  lifted 
them  again  to  sun  and  sky.  Both  I  and  they  are  one; 
three  hundred  years  I've  stretched  my  arms  unto  the 
sun  and  battled  with  the  wind.  In  silence  of  the  plod 
ding  nights  I've  watched  the  cunning  stars  and  heard 
the  thousand  voices  of  the  dark  which  make  the  hush 
more  still;  deep-voiced  frogs,  the  shrilling  tree-toads 
and  cicadas,  far,  sad  whip-poor-will  and  shivering 
owl;  the  fox's  bark  and  wild  cat's  wailing  cry,  the 
cricket's  and  wood  mouse's  squeak.  Through  all  my 
summer  leaves,  the  fire-flies  bear  their  lanterns;  win 
ter  strips  me  bare.  The  red  hawk's  nest  doth  fill 
with  snow,  and  through  the  cold,  clear  winter  night 
there's  not  a  sound.  I  sleep.  But  in  the  waking  sum 
mer  time  I  stretch  my  arms  to  canopy  thy  bed,  and 
at  the  last  I  take  thee  to  my  heart.  For  I  am  thine 
and  thou  art  mine. 

HUBERT.  Then  tell  me,  Oak,  was  any  here  now 
while  I  slept? 

OAK  HEART.  The  Southwind  with  a  yearning  girl. 
HUBERT.  What's  that?  I've  killed  an  every  wicked 
beast  the  forest  holds,  but  never  that. 
OAK  HEART.  It  is  not  use  to  kill  them. 
HUBERT.  What  is  that  delicate,  sweet  smell? 
OAK  HEART.  They  sleep  in  flowers. 
HUBERT.  How  shall  I  see  this  girl? 
OAK  HEART.  How  comes  the  spring  sap  in  my 
veins?  The  satin  leaves  upon  my  twigs?  Inevitable 

11 


beyond  resistance.  She  shall  come  to  thee. 
HUBERT.  I  thank  thee  firm  and  fixed  friend.  I'll 
stir  no  more  abroad  without  my  spear.  Methinks 
thy  leaves  sound  laughingly. 

OAK  HEART.  And  shall  they  weep  when  brooks 
are  chuckling  and  the  sun  vaults  o'er  the  ready 
earth  and  flowers  do  follow,  follow  where  he  treads? 
When  swarming  sparrows  make  the  cedar  trees 
alive?  But  whet  thy  spear;  it  is  a  cunning  beast. 
HUBERT.  I  warrant  I  shall  be  prepared.  Now 
tremble  all  thy  boughs  with  what  seems  laughter. 
OAK  HEART.  See!  between  my  high,  wide-spread 
ing  knees  this  mossy  couch.  Was  ever  velvet  bed  so 
soft?  'Tis  dry  and  thick  and  I  will  hold  thee  in  a 
tender  guard. 

HUBERT.  There  opens  Dropear  and  his  mate,  the 
buck's  afoot  and  I  must  call  them  off  or  they  will 
palter  through  the  silver,  summer  night.  (Sings) 

Oh  my  cunning,  cunning  dogs, 

Oh  my  tuneful  mellow  dogs. 

What  joy  to  your  nose  is  the  hot  scent,  Oh! 

How  you  love  the  steamy  trail, 

And  you'll  follow,  peak  and  dale, 

Till  the  stag  stands  still  with  his  heart  spent,  Oh! 

HUBERT.  Farewell— Good  Oak! 
OAK  HEART.  Farewell  —  But  come  to  me  with  all 
the  burden  of  thy  love  in  summer  time,  and  when  pale 
winter  frosts  thy  mane,  makes  dull  thy  taste,  thine 
eyeballs  dim  and  chills  the  feeble  current  of  thy 
blood.  Still  come  to  me  and  at  my  root  cast  all  thy 
burdens  off  and  fall  upon  the  earth,  and  sleep. 

12 


SCENE  IV.  A  FOREST  GLADE. 

Enter  Eve  and  South  Wind. 

VE.  How  still  it  is.  The  woods,  the  hills,  the 


plains,  the  lakes,  are  pensive  for  their  burning 
lover  who's  departed  down  the  world  and 
only  left  a  dying  flush,  as  'twere  of  love's  remem 
brances.  There  is  not  a  sound.  The  ever  restless  birch 
trees  rest.  Yon  clouds  are  fixed  against  the  saffron 
sky;  the  world  has  died.  And  hear  how  far,  deep 
from  the  forest's  heart,  the  hermit  thrush  shoots  to 
the  ear  his  slender  shaft  of  song.  That  smallest  voice, 
alone  in  all  the  bigness  of  this  world. 
SOUTH  WIND.  It  more  out- voices  far  the  temple 
bells.  Such  nights  I  love.  Whole  seas  of  clover  now 
yield  up  their  sweets,  and  white-plumed  locust  trees, 
which  in  the  sun-time  hum  with  plundering  bees,  now 
breathe  on  cloistering  night  a  fragrant  love  too 
gentle  for  the  bold  and  boisterous  day. 
EVE.  Your  breath  smells  of  the  wild  grape  blooms. 
Come  close  to  me.  It  is  a  holy  hour.  I  feel  a  growing 
loneliness.  Come  close.  Put  your  arms  about  me. 
Let  me  press  my  head  against  your  breast. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Here  steals  above  the  distant  hills' 
dark  velvet  edge  Orion's  sparkling  sword.  Compose 
thyself  to  sleep. 

EVE.  I  cannot  sleep.  The  fever  eats  me.  I  shall 
watch  with  starving  eyes,  alone,  alone. 
SOUTH  WIND.  And  thou  art  sick  again? 
EVE.  Yea,  sicker  than  before, — and  now  I  know  my 
hungering.  It  is  to  touch  my  ivory  god,  or  just  to  hang 
above  him  as  a  humming  bird  above  the  trumpet 
flower.  Or,  but  to  hear  him  speak.  To  serve  him  like 

13 


his  hounds, — to  hide  within  the  ferny  brake  and  feel 
him  touch  me  as  he  passed.  There  is  a  killing  aching 
here,  to  which  but  he  alone  is  cure.  To  eat  him  with 
my  eyes;  to  pluck  the  grass  he  pressed.  And  would 
he  hold  me  as  that  thou  doest  now,  then  every  star 
would  sing  a  chorus  to  the  night  and  I  would  gladly 
close  my  eyes  and  sleep  until  the  sun  burned  out. 
Oh  me!  To  know  I  breathed  the  air  he  breathes! 

SOUTH  WIND.  (Sings.) 

Poppyseed!  Poppyseed!  Hither,  hither  run, 

From  where  the  hot,  hot  sun 

Bakes  hot  the  earth, 

And  thy  drooped  scarlet  weed, 

Come,  come,  my  Poppyseed! 

My  drowsy  sister,  come! 

On  gauzy  beetle  wing  with  lulling  hum. 

Come  to  the  one  in  need, 

My  chosen  sister,  come! 

EVE.  The  spotted  night  hawk  whirls  on  noiseless 
wing  against  the  sky.  [Enter  Poppy] 

SOUTH  WIND.  O !  Sister  mine,  I'll  pay  this  grateful 
debt  some  night  when  thou  art  parched. 
POPPY.  Who  is  in  need? 
SOUTH  WIND.  This  one  is  she. 
POPPY.  (To  Eve)  Would'st  thou  forget? 
EVE.  O!  How  cam'st  thou  here?  Who  art  thou? 
Whence  do'st  come? 

SOUTH  WIND.  She  is  my  sister  of  the  night— my 
ebon-eyed. 

EVE.  How  pale  she  is — how  beautiful.  I  would  the 
light  were  more.  Your  face  is  calm,  but  hath  a  touch 
of  sadness.  Purple  shadows  in  your  hair.  I'd  see 
14 


you  in  the  sun. 

POPPY.  Behold  my  small  embroiderers,  the  fire-fly 
host,  which  even  now  do  fret  the  air  with  gold. 
They'll  give  thee  light. 

EVE.  O,  wondrous!  Beautiful!  These  lines  of  fire 
in  airy  weaving  on  the  velvet  edge  of  night;  and  all 
about  thy  head  a  golden  net.  How  beautiful  thou 
art.  How  pale!  How  calm  thy  eyes. 
POPPY.  Would'st  thou  forget? 
EVE.  Nay!  Not  forget.  I  would  not  yield  the  dear 
and  cruel  pain.  Long  are  the  watches  of  the  night 
when  I  must  be  alone,  and  like  a  hell-wolf  is  the 
hunger  at  my  heart,  and  I  am  sick  with  this  too  biting 
fire,  yet  would  I  not  my  suffering  ease  by  sponging 
all  remembrance  off.  The  pain  he  makes  is  dear  and 
killing  grief,  but  better  than  to  cease  to  know  that 
I  have  known. 

POPPY.  Here  is  a  pale  forget-me-not  his  foot  has 
bruised  today. 

EVE.  Oh,  give  it  me;  I'll  keep  it  warm. 
SOUTH  WIND.  So  rest  thee  here,— thy  head  upon 
my  knee. 

EVE.  Thou  precious  flower. 

POPPY.  Come  hither,  Sleep!  Thou  dumb  and 
gentle  visitor.  Bathe  in  thy  deep  forgetful  well  this 
pricking  memory,  and  wash  these  fevered  eyelids 
with  thy  dew. 

EVE.  Thy  fingers  seem  to  strip  all  trouble  from  me. 
POPPY.  To  eyes,  to  ears,  to  lips,  come  Sleep! 
SOUTH  WIND.  She  sleeps. 

POPPY.  I  from  my  finger  ends  have  poured  the 
charm,  nor  shall  she  wake  until  the  burnished 
pheasant  cock  croaks  to  the  dawn  and  knocks  the 

15 


dew  from  off  the  thistles.  Fare  thee  well! 
SOUTH  WIND.  Farewell!  I'll  leave  her  here;  I 
must  unto  a  lake  I  know,  all  powdered  o'er  with 
stars  mixed  with  the  golden  lilies  shut  like  buds; 
where  great  white  bowled  magnolias  pour  the  balm 
in  which  I  bathe.  I'll  there  affright  the  prowling 
water  rat  to  furtive  splash  and  ere  the  sleepy  sparrow 
chirps,  I'll  breathe  on  Hubert,  then  to  her.  To 
morrow  is  their  day.  Farewell. 
POPPY.  Is  she,  too,  victim  to  the  great,  all-binding 
chain?  The  all-compelling  goad? 
SOUTH  WIND.  Her  time  has  come, 
POPPY.  Farewell,  may  flowers  be  rich. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Farewell,  may  sun  be  true. 

[Exeunt] 

SCENE  V.  A  FOREST  GLADE:  SUNRISE. 
Eve  sleeping. 

ICKORY.  Wake,  beautiful  one! 

CHESTNUT.  Wake,  beautiful  one! 

DOGWOOD.  Wake,  beautiful  one! 
ALL.  She  heeds  not  our  sighing. 
HICKORY.  Wake,  O  beloved! 
CHESTNUT.  Wake,  O  beloved! 
DOGWOOD.  Wake,  O  beloved! 
ALL.  She  hears  not  our  whispering. 
DOGWOOD.  She  is  white  like  my  blossom. 
CHESTNUT.  She  is  like  my  blossom,  creamy  and 
soft. 

HICKORY.  Like  my  leaves,  she  is  fragrant. 
ALL.  She  is  a  child  of  the  earth,  very  beautiful. 
HICKORY.  Her  foot  is  pink  like  the  morning. 
16 


CHESTNUT.  Her  hair  is  like  my  ripened  nuts  seen 
in  the  sunlight. 

DOGWOOD.  Her  breasts  are  ivory,  they  are  cups 
white  as  my  blossoms. 

HICKORY.  She  is  pink  as  the  apple  blossom. 
CHESTNUT.  Soft  as  the  floss  of  the  milk  weed. 
DOGWOOD.  Her  lips  are  red  as  my  berries. 
ALL.  She  is  a  daughter  of  the  earth,  very  beautiful. 
She  hears  not  our  sighing.  Oh,  we  who  are  chained 
to  the  earth,  who  stand  fixed  and  lift  our  fingers  to 
the  sky,  who  pray  to  the  sun;  we  whose  spring  blood 
mounts  in  our  veins,  who  tremble  and  thrill  when 
our  lover  comes ;  we  who  were  men.  Now  our  voices 
wake  not.  In  the  ears  of  men  we  are  dumb.  We  are 
immovable,  fixed;  there  is  none  who  hearkens  to  our 
sighing.  There  is  none  knows  our  whispers.  There 
is  none — there  is  none. 
SQUIRREL.  Who  sleepeth  here? 
HICKORY.  Imp!  Imp!  Come  away.  She's  not  for 
thee. 

SQUIRREL.  Is  she  for  thee,  old  Shellbark? 
DOGWOOD.  Imp!  molest  her  not. 
SQUIRREL.  I  have  hands,  though  they  be  long  and 
be  meant  to  dig;  I  have  ears,  though  they  be  pointed 
and  with  hairy  tufts.  I  have  feet  that  run,  and  I  can 
laugh — I  laugh  at  ye,  ye  prisoned  ones — I  run. 
CHESTNUT.  Chatterer,  molest  her  not  or  thou 
shalt  starve. 

SQUIRREL.  Who's  she,  this  white  and  polished 
worm?  I  think  I'll  bite  her  cheek,  'tis  juicier  than 
a  peach. 

ALL.  Molest  her  not,  thou  Imp. 
SQUIRREL.  Here's  honey  on  her  lips — they  smell 

17 


of  honey-comb — I'll  sip  it  up. 
ALL.  Beware! 

SQUIRREL.  See  how  she  turns  and  murmurs, 
kissing  back  where  I  did  steal  the  sweets — I'd  love 
to  bite. 

ALL.  Beware,  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  Earth  and 
thou  but  forest  imp.  She's  not  for  thee. 
SQUIRREL.  Nor  thee,  nor  thee,  nor  thee.  How 
many  times,  ye  rooted  things,  ye  tell  me  what  I  know. 
May  I  not  peck  as  robins  do  at  cherries  ripe? 
HICKORY.  I'll  cast  a  nut  upon  her.  It  is  green,  but 
it  will  touch  my  love  and  wake  her  eyes. 
SQUIRREL.  O  brave!  See,  still  she  sleeps  and  on 
her  fair  white  thigh  a  red  spot  from  thy  stroke. 
HICKORY.  Tis  like  a  rose  leaf  on  a  bank  of  snow. 
SQUIRREL.  Cast  thou,  wise  chestnut,  one  of  thy 
green  porcupines  upon  her  flesh.  'Twill  please  her 
much.  This  is  old  Shellbark's  way. 
HICKORY.  I'd  love  to  crack  thy  crown. 
SQUIRREL.  I  do  not  pelt  my  love  with  stones. 
Look  now.  I'll  watch  above  her,  swinging  in  thy 
limbs.  I'll  touch  her  with  my  hands  and  rub  them 
on  thy  bark,  so  thou  shalt  thrill. 
HICKORY.  O,  good  Imp,  do! 
SQUIRREL.  Tis  good  Imp  now— I'll  guard  her 
jealously.  Here  comes  young  Stupid-wise. 
OWLET.  What's  here,  a  glorious  glow  worm? 
SQUIRREL.  Glorious  fool! 
OWLET.  I'll  call  them  all— Hoo,  Hoo! 
SQUIRREL.  Here  comes  my  cock-a-dandy  in  the 
lead;  my  silent,  modest  joy.  He  thinks  there's  eating 
here.  And  come  the  forest  tenantry  from  hawk  to 
wren,  from  buck  to  beetle.  See  them  gather  'round. 
18 


[Enter  Forest  tenantry.  They  gather  round  about 
Eve,  bedding  her  in  flowers.  Enter  South  Wind] 
SOUTH  WIND.  Who  gave  you  leave  to  stare? 
Away!  'Tis  dawn — Away,  intrusive  fools!  (Kisses 
Eve.)  [Exeunt  Forest  tenantry] 

EVE.  (Waking)  You  have  been  near  him? 
SOUTH  WIND.  Yes. 

EVE.  I  would  that  I  had  been  near  you.  Who  has 
been  here  and  left  me  bedded  in  these  leaves  and 
flowers?  See  all  the  fragrant  litter  round. 
SOUTH  WIND.   It  was  the  forest  folk.    They 
watched  your  sleep. 

EVE.  Come  near,  there's  scent  of  him  upon  you. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Take  my  hand  and  down  these 
leafy  lanes,  green  carpeted  and  sunshine  flecked, 
we'll  noiseless  flit  as  shadows  of  a  passing  cloud  — 
and  we  shall  bathe  where  he  did  bathe. 
EVE.  Oh  come! 

SOUTH  WIND.  The  woods  are  musical,  and  morn 
ing's  choir  in  jangling  melody  makes  sweetest 
discord.  Now  near,  now  far,  and  now  a  burst  of 
rivalry  which  shakes  the  air.  There  is  no  cease. 
Wren,  sparrow,  cat-bird,  cardinal  and  robin,  lark,  a 
thousand  more,  each  sings  his  way,  yet  all  a  glad, 
sweet  chorusing,  and  chorus-master  mocker  leads 
them  all.  The  wood's  green  veil  is  tender  still  and 
pale;  new  in  its  summer  birth.  The  slender  traceries 
of  stems  and  limbs  a  lovely  maze,  pink  starflowers, 
delicate  as  breath,  anemones  and  purple  pansies 
made  a  carpet  rich,  May  apples  lift  umbrellas,  glossy 
green,  against  the  morning's  diamond  shower. 
EVE.  There  goes  a  forest  herd.  The  dew  still  on 
their  coats:  how  proud  and  daintily  they  step;  how 

19 


haughty  gaze;  my  playmate  is  not  there. 
SOUTH  WIND.  Now  run  with  me.  Thus  hand  in 
hand,  as  light  as  swallows,  o'er  this  carpet  pied 
whose  jewels  nod,  and  scarcely  know  they  have 
been  pressed.  [Exeunt] 

HICKORY.  And  she  has  gone.    There  is  great 
emptiness  about  this  place. 

DOGWOOD.  She's  gone,  and  though  I  lean  and 
bend,  I  cannot  follow. 

CHESTNUT.  She  has  gone.  Let  us  together  sigh; 
each  other  soothing  with  our  murmurous  whisper 
ing;  our  leaves  together  clashing  in  sad  grief  with 
whisp'ring,  rustling,  hushing,  sighing,  soothing;  so 
let  us  console  our  grief  till  she  return. 
HICKORY.  I  would  have  given  her  my  sap  to 
drink — it  is  most  sweet. 

CHESTNUT.  I  would  have  ripened  nuts  for  her— 
they  are  most  sweet. 

DOGWOOD.  I  would  have  riped  for  her  my 
berries — bitter  are  they,  but  full  of  spice. 
SQUIRREL.  Hush,  stupid  and  poor,  rooted  things. 
The  day  is  hot  and  I  would  sleep.  Aye!  Sigh  and 
whisper — rustle — ye  shall  not  behold  her.  She  has 
gone,  but  I  am  here,  and  I  would  sleep.  Cast  not  on 
me  thy  tokens,  grey  Shellbark.  Chestnut,  drop  not  on 
me  thy  hedgehog  children.  Hark!  I  know  your  love 
and  need  no  pricking.  Oh!  the  very  sky  doth  sing 
to  me  a  lullaby.  Hush  me  to  sleep,  ye  whisperers. 


20 


SCENE  VI.  A  COTTAGE  AND  GRAPE  ARBOR. 

Hubert  with  his  hounds.  (Sings) 

HE  blue,  blue  sky  bends  clear  and  fair, 
The  earth,  it  joys  in  giving. 
There's  smell  of  summer  in  the  air 


And  I  am  glad  of  living. 

Aye  whine,  whine  when  I  sing,  ye  honest  Courtiers, 
Mayhap  ye  like  this  better.  (Sings) 

Woe,  woe  is  me.  By  the  black,  the  Cypress  tree 
I  lie  and  moan  and  moan, 
Nor  close  my  sight, 

0  the  weary,  weary  night, 

1  lie  alone,  alone. 

Be  still!  Your  chorus  is  more  dismal  than  my  song. 
I  like  it  not  myself — a  silly  dirge.  There  is  a  scent 
about  me  here  I  seem  to  know.  'Tis  of  the  South. 
A  horn  blast  shall  awake  your  ears,  ye  bell-mouthed 
ones.  (Blows  horn — Hounds  bay  to  it.  Sings) 

Then  up,  up,  up,  the  blue  is  in  the  sky, 
The  thrushes  wake  the  thicket, 
And  the  sparrows  wake  the  thorn. 
There  are  dew  pearls  on  the  rose-leaf, 
There  is  none  so  glad  as  I, 
In  the  going  of  the  shadow, 

And  the  coming  of  the  morn. 

• 

Then  up,  up,  up,  the  blue  is  in  the  sky, 
There  is  gold  upon  the  hilltop, 
And  the  veil  of  night  is  torn. 

21 


There  is  silver  on  the  meadow, 
And  there's  none  so  glad  as  I, 
In  the  going  of  the  shadow, 
And  the  coming  of  the  morn. 

I'll  race  ye  to  the  Forest's  Eye.  'Tis  fine  to  feel  it's 
cool  caress  when  I  am  hot.  Back,  Swiftfoot,  naughty 
dog,  fair  start.  Now  come. 

SCENE  VII.  THE  POOL  CALLED  THE  FOR 
EST'S  EYE. 

Eve  and  South  Wind. 

|VE.  I  used  to  think  my  feet  were  light  but 
thou  hast  brought  me  here  as  we  were  air. 
The  clover  blossoms  white  did  only  nod. 
SOUTH  WIND.  It  was  my  mood.  The  sighs  and 
plaints  and  wooings  of  the  trees  do  irk  me  so  I  stop 
my  ears  and  run.  Sometimes  I'll  lie  and  listen  all 
the  day.  But  now  I  am  impatient  with  their  frets : 
they  have  their  fate — what  boots  it  to  complain?  Do 
and  wail  not,  the  world  rolls  on. 
EVE.  Here  is  the  place  he  lay. 
SOUTH  WIND.  And  there  the  place  he  stood. 
EVE.  I'll  into  it — Mayhap  it  hath  some  memory  of 
my  god.  The  very  drops  which  clung  to  him  may 
cling  to  me. 

SOUTH  WIND.  Is  this  not  sweet?  So  warm- 
yet  cool. 

EVE.  So  fresh — strength  giving,  splashed  away  it 
quick  returns  in  eagerness  to  kiss  and  kiss  again.  It 
bears  me  up — it  clings  about.  This  is  the  very  spot 
he  stood.  The  shining  depths  which  held  him  once 
22 


embrace  me  now.  See  what  a  shower  of  jewels  in 
the  sun  my  hands  can  toss. 

SOUTH  WIND.  We'll  quarrel!  Come!  There  are 
dewdrops  for  thine  ey  es.There  are  more.Take  these ! 
EVE.  Stop — Stop — your  splashy  jewels  take  my 
breath.  [Enter  Hubert.  South  Wind  vanishes] 

OAK  HEART.  He  comes  with  bow  and  spear.  But 
little  knows  the  cruel  beast  is  near.  Blue  butterflies 
for  chamber-maids,  the  couch  is  spread. 
HUBERT.  Come  in,  good  dogs.  Hark!  Psht!  There's 
splashing  forward — wonderful,  how  white  this  is — 
and  beautiful.  Oh  beautiful,  most  beautiful!  The 
hungry  pool  does  make  of  one  a  thousand.  Twists 
each  curve  into  a  thousand  semblances  but  none  so 
fine.  'Tis  rare  to  watch  the  countless  mimicries  the 
happy  pool  doth  make  but  as  the  watcher  tired  of 
looking  at  the  dimmer  moon  afloat  upon  the  sleeping 
stream  doth  turn  in  gladness  to  the  sky's  bright 
pearl,  so  now  this  creamy  soft  and  pink  original 
rewards  my  truant  sight,  makes  it  unwilling  to  an 
instant  stray  and  eager  to  return.  I  must  have 
speech  with  her — Aye — touch  her  though  I  die!  O 
one  most  beautiful!  I  pray  thee,  fear  me  not.  I  and 
my  dogs  are  humble  unto  thee. 
EVE.  'Tis  he.  Ah!  Oh! 

HUBERT.  Yea,  stare  into  my  very  heart:  I  only 
pray  to  touch  thy  hand,  thou  art  so  beautiful.  Thou 
art  a  daughter  of  the  gods.  I  could  not  harm  thee  if 
I  would.  I  am  a  child  of  earth,  but  there  is  in  me 
only  melting  tenderness  for  thee.  See,  I  have  cast 
my  bow  and  spear  aside.  Charge,  pretties!  Charge! 
I'll  come  to  thee  and  take  thy  hand  and  lead  thee 
to  this  sun-gilt  spot  beneath  this  beech. 

23 


EVE.  O,  sister — where — she's  gone!  I  am  alone. 
Fair  god.  Where  is  the  one  who  was  with  me  but 
now  before  you  spoke? 
HUBERT.  I  saw  none  else. 

EVE.  I  am  alone.  Fair  god,  thou'rt  angry  that  I 
stole  thy  pool. 

HUBERT.  I  am  no  god— child  of  the  earth  I  am, 
and  thou  a  nymph.  Ah,  me! 
EVE.  Nay,  but  a  daughter  of  the  earth. 
HUBERT.  Art  thou,  like  me,  a  child  of  earth?  I'm 
glad — O,  I  am  very  glad! 

EVE.  A  frail,  brief  mushroom  of  the  morning. 
HUBERT.  Still  bright  with  dew.  So  dazzling  white 
and  pink.  Child  of  the  dawn.  Give  me  thy  hand. 
How  soft.  How  warm.  How  quivering  hot  the  sun. 
He  pours  his  glorious  flood  as  if  he  meant  to  slay 
us.  Here  I'll  spread  my  mantle  in  this  restless 
shade.  These  are  my  dogs — they  kiss  thy  rosy 
feet,  as  I  would  too.  They  love  thee  well. 
EVE.  O,  is  the  world  so  bright,  or  is  it  thou  which 
shines  my  eyes?  And  is  the  world  so  still?  Mine  ears 
seem  dulled — I  only  hear  thy  voice;  my  thoughts 
do  choke  my  words.  There  is  within  me  such  great 
lightness  as  would  lift  me  from  the  earth. 
HUBERT.  As  floats  the  sky  lark  in  morning  seas  of 
light  upon  the  bubbles  of  his  song — so  lifts  my  heart. 
EVE.  If  I  were  plucked  from  thee  I'd  wilt  as  quickly 
as  the  maiden  fern  cast  in  the  sun.  Break  not  this 
happy  spell. 

HUBERT.  Cease  not  thy  words.  They  stir  in  me  a 
melody  which  is  in  tune  with  old  Creation's  morn 
ing  hymn. 

EVE.  Say  on! — say  on! 
24 


HUBERT.  Child  of  the  earth,  bright  eyed,  bright 
cheeked,  white  armed,  I  feel  the  arrows  of  thy  eyes. 
I  smell  thy  hair's  faint  spicery. 
EVE.  My  love!  I  give  myself  to  thee  more  willing 
than  the  lake  receives  the  brook — more  ready  than 
the  earth  upturns  her  steamy  April  breast  unto  the 
sun.  More  eager  than  the  long-coursed,  panting  stag 
drinks  from  the  sweet  and  crystal  rill.  Thou  art  to 
me  more  beautiful  than  winter  stars  or  full  orbed 
moon  within  the  violet  east.  More  lovely  than  aught 
other  thing  this  earth  affords — or  gemmy  flowers 
or  plumy  trees  or  quick-eyed,  painted  birds  or  hind 
or  doe.  Thou  art  the  one  desired  thing;  a  something 
draws  me  to  thee  as  the  stars  are  drawn  adown  the 
sky.  I  am  by  the  great  Archer  shot  upon  the  target 
of  thy  breast. 

HUBERT.  Thou  art  so  fair,  so  white,  so  warm,  so 
smooth,  so  soft,  so  beautiful! 
EVE.  My  love!  My  love! 

HUBERT.  The  lagging  sun  hath  turned  his  pin 
nacle;  a  hush  is  coming  on;  the  air  is  warm.  The 
humble  bee  treads  busily  the  thistle  bloom.  Come 
we  unto  the  shelter  of  old  Oak  Heart. 
EVE.  Where  thou  art,  there  'tis  good  for  me  to  be. 
OAK  HEART.  So  is  it  now  to  be.  As  from  the  first 
forever  so.  O,  great,  hot  sun,  thou  art  a  master 
breeder!  See!  They  come. 


END  OF  THE  FIRST  PART 


25 


THE  SECOND  PART 

OF  THE 
MASQUE  OF  LOVE 


A  MASQUE  OF  LOVE.  THE  SECOND  PART. 
SCENE  I.  THE  FOREST. 
Martin  and  Philip. 

ARTIN.  God,  what  a  night! 

PHILIP.    Speak  louder,  Martin.    The 

rude  wind  howls  away  your  words. 

MARTIN.   I  say  it  is  a  fearful  night. 

I  would  we  were  well  out  from  here. 
The  trees  go  down  like  drunken  men. 
PHILIP.  'Tis  all  pitch  black.  What's  that?  Again 
that  shuddering  groan. 

MARTIN.  A  sound  from  Hell.  Saints!  What  crash 
was  that?  It  faroutcracks  the  storm.  There  went  a  fir 
was  centuries  a-building.  Let  us  shelter  beneath  these 
dripping  canopies  as  do  the  hairy,  houseless  animals, 
and  pray  our  home  be  never  toppled  on  our  heads. 
PHILIP.  It  is  a  night  for  murder. 
MARTIN.  Psht!  Say  not  that  word. 
PHILIP.  When  lulls  the  storm  I  hear  a  crying  child. 
MARTIN.  Christ  save  us!  Why  did  you  speak  of 
blood!  By  flames  which  split  the  sky,  I  saw  the 
witches'  oak. 

PHILIP.  Again  that  wailing  cry.  Oh,  Christ,  we're 
lost!  It  is  a  damned  soul.  O,  Heaven,  save!  The 
fiend  hath  clutched  me. 

MARTIN.  Stay!  You're  caught  upon  this  bough. 
PHILIP.  Oh,  cock-crow,  sound,  and  come,  bright 
comfortable  dawn. 

MARTIN.  I  would  give  much  to  see  a  window 
bright.  To  feel  the  blazing  hearth. 
PHILIP.  There  glides  a  light. 

29 


MARTIN.  A  pale,  green,  witches'  light,  a  lure — 
look  not  that  way. 

PHILIP.  Christ  keep  us  from  the  fury  of  this  night 
and  evil  spirits  of  this  wood.  I  am  wet  through.  The 
sky  has  spilt  its  lees  upon  me.  If  I  be  spared,  I'll 
render  what  I've  stole. 
MARTIN.  More  loud.  I  cannot  hear. 
PHILIP.  'Twas  naught. 

MARTIN.  What  fools  we  were  to  try  this  way .  Last 
year  in  such  a  storm  and  in  this  very  wood  John  Roach 
was  changed  into  a  dog  and  howling  ran  into  the  night. 
PHILIP.  For  love  of  God!  Christ  spare  me  and 
I'll  make  amend  for  all  my  evil  deeds.  Ill  pay  the 
widow  Locksley  for  the  calf  I  stole. 
MARTIN.  I  think  the  gusty  fury  of  the  night  doth 
by  degrees  grow  tired, 

PHILIP.  Thank  God!  And,  see,  the  light  is  battling 
with  the  dark.  A  man  will  dread  the  dark  by  nature 
as  he  dreadeth  death. 
MARTIN.  A  long,  dull  dark! 
PHILIP.  I've  heard  it  called  a  sleep. 
MARTIN.  But  who  would  sleep  if  he  were  sure  his 
eyes  would  never  lift  again? 

PHILIP.  There's  something  in  us  fights  against  this 
wakeless  sleep.  A  rat  will  fight  to  live. 
MARTIN.  With  old  men 'tis  not  so.  Theyaretootired. 
They  neither  like  not  death,  but  it  comes  to  sooth  their 
waywardness  e'en  in  the  moment  while  they  feebly 
do  rebel  like  grumbling  children.  See  the  morning's 
chariot  is  scattering  the  churlish  clouds.  The  earth 
wakes  newly  washed — as  so  it  shall,  refreshened  by 
a  many  deluge  wrack,  when  we  have  slept  a  thousand 
thousand  years.  Let  us  go  on.  [Exeunt] 

30 


SCENE  II.  MAGDALEN  IN  HER  ROOM. 

(AGDALEN.  Oh,  will  he  never  come!  How 
all  life  ends  when  he  departs  and  only  sings 
its  tune  when  I  can  see  and  hear  and  touch. 
How  I  do  hang  upon  him  as  a  pear  sucks  sweetness 
on  the  parent  bough.  All  sweetness  draw  I  from  the 
riches  of  his  love.  When  he  is  absent,  what's  the 
world?  A  stale  and  gloomy  halting  place  until  he 
come  again.  And  when  he  comes — his  presence,  like 
a  brighter  sun,  makes  every  vein  to  swell  with  love's 
sweet  sap.  Then  is  the  earth  new  dressed — the 
skies  bend  lovelier,  and  stars  come  closer  to  my 
whispering.  Then  every  flutter  of  my  heart  is  like 
a  bird  in  May.  I  would  do  anything  he  said  except 
to  share  his  love.  Oh,  I  am  jealous  of  the  maid  who 
makes  his  bed.  Of  her  who  hands  him  food.  A  glove, 
a  flower,  a  leaf,  or  any  paltry  thing  which  he  hath 
held  is  precious  made.  I  give  it  kisses  I  should  give 
to  him.  I  smell  it,  tuck  it  twixt  my  breasts,  and  like 
some  bedlam  fool  I  love  it  past  comparison.  He's 
more  than  life  to  me.  He  is  my  soul,  my  priest,  my 
prince,  my  breath,  my  God,  my  Christ.  So  wild  a 
night  and  he  abroad.  My  roof  not  his — my  life  not 
his.  The  days  still  hurrying  into  Time's  abyss  while 
I  sit  cheated  of  my  only  hope.  I  must  be  freed  and 
I  will  free.  This  wicked  compact  marriage  which  in 
an  hour  doth  bind  the  unknown  sum  of  years  despite 
what  change  may  come.  'Tis  wickedness!  Prate  not 
of  God!  'Tis  fetched  from  Hell.  It  is  a  compact  holy 
as  a  sale  of  mares.  If  we  do  love,  is  naught;  and  if 
we  hate,  is  naught;  how  it  shall  end,  is  naught.  Th' 
inexorable  folly  still  doth  claim  its  sacrifice  "till 

31 


death  doth  part."  Aye,  so!  —  aye,  well!  Then 
death  shall  part.  I  will  summon  subtle  death  to  part 
this  superstitious  knot.  This  trick  of  priests.  A 
lawyer's  trick  to  damn  unwedded  love  and  give  a 
parchment  air  to  lust.  What's  marriage?  If  true  love 
there  be  and  no  marriage,  'tis  well ;  and  if  there  be  no 
marriage  and  no  love,  'tis  well;  but  if  there  be  but 
marriage  and  no  love,  'tis  Hell.  But  then  'tis  Hell 
respectable.  It  is  an  echo  from  the  market  place 
where  woman  had  her  body  as  her  one  poor  price. 
And  chastity!  I  like  this  virtue  of  the  silken  dame 
who,  egged  by  brethren,  sisters,  mother  too,  doth 
coolly  make  her  market  for  her  merchandise,  and 
bait  the  victim  with  suggestions  of  her  wares.  She 
strikes  an  altar  bargain  to  some  worn-out  rake  or 
dotard  whose  too  withered  age  is  foul  to  think  on 
next  her  fresh  virginity.  But  lawful  marriage  keeps 
her  chaste — a  most  chaste  prostitute.  And  that  poor 
sister  whose  strong  love  doth  make  her  weak — she 
is  not  chaste.  Lawful!  Lawful!  I  like  that  word 
"Lawful."  Who  made  that  law?  And  she  a  leaf  in 
Nature's  whirlwind  caught,  who  seeks,  who  thinks 
no  other  thing  but  Nature's  love — why  she!  she  is 
not  virtuous.  Her  love,  too  blind,  has  cut  the  very 
stick  which  drives  her  to  the  street.  [Enter  Edwin] 
EDWIN.  Hush!  Come  not  nigh  me.  I  am  wet. 
MAGDALEN.  I  come  not  nigh  thee!  Come  not  nigh 
to  Heaven!  Not  to  my  salvation!  Not  to  life  or  soul! 
At  last  I  hold  thee  in  my  arms.  My  very  god! 
EDWIN.  I'm  wet.  I'll  wet  thee,  dear  one.  There, 
I  fear  for  thee. 

MAGDALEN.  It  is  but  water.  Were  it  blood,  and 
blood  of  all  my  kin,  I'd  take  it  from  thee  deeming 
32 


only  precious  that  it  came  from  thee.  I  love  thee, 
Sweet. 

EDWIN.  My  darling,  sweetest  heart,  wife  of  my 
soul.  Tho'  not  my  wife. 

MAGDALEN.  Who  is  it  says  I  must  be  wife  where 
I  love  not?  What  is  the  right  to  make  me  wife  where 
is  no  love?  The  Law!  The  Law  has  got  me  in  its 
iron  clutch  and  those  who  love  the  Law  will  mock 
me.  Well!  Then  let  the  Law  beware.  "Till  Death  us 
part."  I'll  summon  Death,  black-winged  and  terrible. 
Come,  Death,  and  part  the  chains  of  infamy. 
EDWIN.  Hush.  Thou  dost  rave. 
MAGDALEN.  I  rave  not.  See,  my  hand  is  firm. 
Shall  I  just  sit  and  let  my  one  and  only  life  run  out, 
nor  live  with  thee?  Nor  call  thee  mate?  Not  love 
thee  with  a  high  and  open  pride?  Shall  I  descend  into 
the  grave  and  never  know  this  only  Heaven?  No! 
I'll  kill!  What's  he  to  me?  A  block  to  be  removed. 
Why,  what's  this  life?  'Tis  breath.  'Tis  taken  daily  for 
our  food.  He  bars  my  road  to  Heaven.  So  I'll  put 
him  from  my  path.  I'll  be  the  slave  of  Law  no  more. 
And  you  shall  wed  me — take  me — hold  me — own 
me  in  the  face  of  priests  and  all  this  foolish  world.  I 
know  no  Hell  except  to  dwell  apart  from  thee. 
EDWIN.  I  am  afraid,  afraid  of  men  and  something 
we  call  God.  Afraid  of  mine  own  soul  in  watches 
of  the  night  and  when  I  too  shall  come  to  die.  Are 
we  not  happy  in  our  love? 

MAGDALEN.  Twice  no!  Not  I.  I  want  you  all  my 
life.  I  want  your  name,  your  love,  your  child.  There 
is  a  canker  eating  out  my  happiness.  I'll  face  the  Law 
and  my  own  death-bed  too  as  I  had  killed  a  dog. 
EDWIN.  Hark! 

33 


MAGDALEN.  'Twas  but  a  shutter,  swinging  in  the 
wind. 

EDWIN.  Is't  the  house  which  trembles  or  myself? 
MAGDALEN.  The  house  doth  shake  with  fury  of 
the  storm. 

EDWIN.  It  is  an  awful  night  to  cast  a  soul  adrift! 
Sweetheart,  not  yet. 

MAGDALEN.  O!  You'll  not  love  me  if  I  do't.  Your 
love  will  turn  against  that  so  great  love  which 
thought  black  murder  but  a  little  thing  for  thy 
love's  sake? 

EDWIN.  Nay,  nay.  I  am  locked  up  in  that  hot 
passion  of  thy  love.  I'd  love  thee  tho'  I  saw  thee  kill 
my  father— aye,  I'd  love  thee! 
MAGDALEN.  What  is  death!  How  gladly  would  I 
rather  die  than  live  this  life  of  wasting.  Death's  but 
a  fading  back  to  earth.  The  end  of  strife,  the  endless 
peace.  How  often  have  I  stood  above  him  as  he  slept 
and  longed  to  do  this  little  thing  would  let  him 
sleep  much  more — I  do  not  wish  his  life,  but  I'll  not 
be  a  flouted,  jeered  and  scorned  prostitute  because 
I  will  not  be  a  prostitute.  The  hangman  slays  not 
what  poor  wretch  he  hangs.  It  is  the  law,  and  so  I 
slay  not;  it  is  the  law.  Their  vaunted,  boasted,  holy 
law.  That  man-made  thing  which  perfect  is  and 
cannot  err.  Go  thou  in  here;  Lay  off  thy  sodden 
things  and  wrap  thee  in  this  cloak  of  mine  and  in 
my  love. 

[Edwin  enters  an  inner  chamber.  Enter  servant] 
SERVANT.  Madam,  my  master  begs  you  to  come 
to  him.  [Exit  Servant] 

MAGDALEN.  I'll  come  to  him  with  leaden  wings 
outstretched,  deep  breedings  in  my  eyes;  and  in 
34 


my  heart.  "What's  Death  but  sleep — a  long,  long 
sleep — a  dreamless  sleep.  And  sleep  is  what  tired 
men  do  most  desire.  [Exit  Magdalen] 

SCENE  III.  A  BED  ROOM. 

Anthony  in  his  bed.  Enter  Magdalen. 

|AGDALEN.  mDid  you  desire  e  here? 

ANTHONY.  I  do  desire  you.  How  wild  a 

storm.  It  shakes  the  house. 
MAGDALEN.  It  is  a  night  in  which  to  die. 
ANTHONY.  Most  nights  are  fit  to  die  in  if  we 
must,  and  none  if  we  may  choose.  But  you  are  far 
from  death  and  I  shall  cheat  him  many  a  year.  Talk 
not  of  dying.  Come  kiss  me.  I'm  your  lord. 
MAGDALEN.  I  love  you  not.  I  was  appraised  — 
you  paid  the  price  and  I,  young  fool,  pushed  by  the 
will  of  her  who  gave  me  birth  and  should  have  been 
my  guide,  I  was  well  sold.  I  love  you  not.  I've  told 
you  so. 

ANTHONY.  By  God!  You  shall.  What  is  this 
whimsy,  prating,  school-girl  appetite  called  love 
which  is  so  delicate?  Which  will  just  feed  upon  the 
flower  it  will,  and  pass  a  better  by.  Eh!  Eh!  Which 
cannot  be  compelled.  Aha!  Cold  time  and  I  shall 
change  thy  tune.  I  have  thee,  and  I'll  have  thy  love. 
MAGDALEN.  Perhaps.  How  long  a  time  is  one 
swift  petty  year!  I've  brought  your  sleeping 
draught.  I'll  be  your  nurse — but  not  your  love. 
ANTHONY.  I  am  no  friend  of  sleep.  That  vacant 
time.  That  helpless,  mimic  death.  The  world,  the 
bustle,  strife,  the  warring  competition  to  be  first — 
'tis  that  I  love.  I  grudge  these  hours  to  sleep. 

35 


MAGDALEN.  Then  take  it  not.  I'll  leave  it  here 
and  when  the  lonely  hours  oppress  thee,  it  is  here. 
ANTHONY.  Stay.  I  will  not  be  alone. 
MAGDALEN.   I'll  stay.   I  think  you  bought  that 
much. 

ANTHONY.  I  think  so  too.  Now  give  it  me.  A  man 
must  sleep.  There  was  a  time  upon  the  hardest 
floor  I  needed  none  of  drugs  to  give  me  sleep.  Ah! 
When  I  wake,  the  world  will  seem  new  made. 

[She  gives  him  the  poison  to  drink] 
MAGDALEN.  Aye,  when  you  wake — (Aside)  how 
old  the  earth  will  be.  Good-night. 
ANTHONY.  'Tis  not  good-night.  I  never  knew  a 
worse.  I  never  heard  the  wind  to  bellow  so  and 
this  old  house  is  trembling  in  its  bed. 
MAGDALEN.  Tis  so.  This  night  will  be  long. 
ANTHONY.  But  if  I  sleep  'twill  not  be  long.  It  will 
be  as  if  the  storm  were  hushed,  all  turbulence  were 
o'er.  For  what  1  know  not  of  doth  not  exist  for  me. 
MAGDALEN.  Most  true,  and  so  is  heavy-lidded 
sleep  a  boon. 

ANTHONY.  Pish!  If  that  I  knew  my  eyes  would 
close  in  death — to  see  no  more  the  sun  or  moon  or 
stars — my  ears  no  more  again  to  hear  a  sound;  my 
tongue  to  rot  and  earth  for  me  to  end,  I  would  not 
sleep  though  all  the  fiends  of  Hell  did  drag  my 
eyelids  down.  It  is  a  noisy  night.  When  I  do  wake, 
I  hope  the  world  will  smile. 

[He  falls  into  a  stupor.  Enter  Edwin] 
MAGDALEN.  'Tis  done,  he  sleeps. 
EDWIN.  Will  he  not  wake? 

MAGDALEN.  Not  till  the  dead  awake.  Come,  kiss 
me.  Show  thou  lovest  me  still,  and  more. 
36 


EDWIN.  I  do  — I  do  — I  do! 

[Kisses  her  and  Anthony  awakes] 
ANTHONY.  False!  False!  False!  Murdered!  Mur 
dered!  False!  False!  False!  I  dream — I  sleep.  I  — 

[He  falls  into  a  stupor] 

MAGDALEN.  He'll  never  look  or  speak  again. 
EDWIN.  How  his  dull  eye  did  freeze  my  soul — 
he  breathes  and — might  be  saved. 
MAGDALEN.  He  hath  by  now  got  far  upon  that 
road  on  which  no  step  points  back.  Come,  Sweet 
heart,  love  me  if  you'd  have  me  know  your  love  is 
not  by  this  made  cool.  I  had  no  hatred  for  this  man, 
save  that  he  barred  my  path  to  thee;  for  thee  I  gave 
him  sleep.  'Twas  all  for  thee. 

EDWIN.  God,  'tis  a  fearful  night.  How  shakes  the 
house  in  every  joint,  and  what  a  din  of  noises  start 
the  ear. 

MAGDALEN.  Aye,  'tis  a  solemn  night,  for  I  have 
blotted  out  that  lamp  was  lit  so  many  countless  centu 
ries  ago.  I've  quenched  the  flame  which  so  precious 
is,  the  busy  little  ant  will  fight  to  keep  it  quick.  I've 
broke  the  crystal  globe.  It  lies  now  all  in  useless 
bits.  I've  been  a  thief  and  stole  a  priceless  gem 
which  I  can  never  give  again.  I've  thrust  rude  gravel 
twixt  the  subtle  wheels  so  delicate  we  cannot  guess  at 
their  machinery.  I've  robbed  that  dull  and  careless 
body  there  of  wit  and  sight  and  sense  and  taste  and 
talk  and  motion;  all!  Made  blank  and  unconsidered 
day  and  night;  the  robin's  song  and  springtime's 
green  and  winter  white ;  dulled  evermore  that  ear  to 
music,  and  to  love  or  revelry.  That  tongue  to  wine. 
I've  ta'en  the  vital  spark  and  left  a  slow  dissolving 
clod.  And  all  for  love.  O,  thou  in  me  shalt  light  the 

37 


spark  of  life  I  have  put  out;  and  call  me  wife.  I'll 
bear  thee  children.  1  am  all  mad  for  love. 
EDWIN.  This  room  and  that  upon  the  bed  is  terrible 
to  me.  Let  us  go  hence. 

MAGDALEN.  The  clouds  are  blown — the  morning 
comes.  Oh,  what  a  heartener  is  the  sun. 
EDWIN.  What's  that!  [A  knocking  is  heard] 

MAGDALEN.  You  must  not  stay — 'twould  peril 
thee.  Good-night,  good  morning  and  good-by — till 
here  you  come  to  safely  lie. 

[Exit  Edwin  hastily  and  lets  fall  a  handkerchief. 
Enter  Benjamin] 

MAGDALEN.  Your  master,  Benjamin,  is  dead.  Put 
all  in  order.  Mend  the  fire.  A  fire  gone  out  cannot 
be  lit  again.  [Exit  Magdalen] 

BENJAMIN.  Here  is  a  handkerchief!  I  know  it  well. 
'Tis  lettered,  too,  and  well — and  I  could  guess  'tis  by 
my  mistress'  hands.  It  is  Edwin  Graves'.  How  fine 
it  is.  How  senseless  dumb.  Yet  every  thread  might 
cry  aloud,  Murder ! 

[Puts  it  in  his  pocket  and  goes  out] 

SCENE  IV.  THE  HALL  OF  MAGDALEN'S 
HOUSE. 

Enter  Martin  and  Philip. 

|ARTIN.  Now  is  the  time  to  reckon  up  thy 
ill  and  cheating  deeds  thou  sworest  to  make 
amend. 

PHILIP.  That  was  last  night.  The  sun  is  shining 
now  and  shows  me  what  a  fool  I  was. 
MARTIN.  I  do  remember  me  the  calf  you  stole 
from  Widow  Locksley. 
38 


PHILIP.  Hell  take  your  memory!  Hsh!  Here  she 

comes.  [Enter  Magdalen] 

MAGDALEN.  Ye  were  out  in  all  the  storm.  It  was 

a  wild  night. 

MARTIN.  It  was  indeed. 

MAGDALEN.  Aye!  indeed. 

[Enter  Samuel,  with  servants  and  others] 
SAMUEL.  The  night  was  wild  and  wild  its  work. 
Mistress,  have  you  heard  the  news? 
MAGDALEN.  What  news? 

SAMUEL.  The  ancient  oak  in  the  stony  field  is 
down  and  lifted  with  its  roots  a  half  the  field  and 
picked  between  the  fingers  of  the  roots  a  skull  with 
rusty,  dainty,  jeweled  dagger  through  the  eye.  Here 
is  a  mystery. 

SERVANT.  I  now  am  old  and  in  my  boyhood's 
time  I  used  to  sit  beside  the  fire  on  howling  winter 
nights  and  hear  my  grandsire  tell  of  this  same 
haunted  field,  wherein  on  fearful  nights  a  spirit 
walked  crying,  "False!  False!  False!"  A  woman 
followed  after,  wringing  ghostly  hands. 
MAGDALEN.  Be  still  with  foolish  tales.  I  forbid 
you  speak  of  this  to  fright  the  ignorant. 
SAMUEL.  There's  news  that's  not  of  ghosts. 
MAGDALEN.  Well? 

SAMUEL.  At  William  Miller's  mill,  there  at  the 
headgate  in  the  pond,  among  all  sticks  brought  by 
the  flood,  this  morning  showed  the  death-white  face 
of  Farmer  Hodges'  little  Bess,  just  turned  eighteen. 
She  and  her  unborn  babe  there  'mid  the  wreck  as  if  it 
were  Heaven's  gate  which  patiently  she  knocked  at. 
MAGDALEN.  Poor  child!  Poor  child!  You,  Samuel, 
shall  carry  her  unto  her  home  and  go  you  to  the 

39 


priest  and  say  I'll  bear  the  cost  of  her  most  decent 
burial. 

SAMUEL,  Nay,  not  in  holy  ground.  She  is  by 
church  accursed. 

MAGDALEN.  Curse  on  the  Church  which  curses  the 
dumb  dead  or  frowns  upon  the  sinful,  saddened 
heart.  Then  I  will  take  her  from  the  church  and 
bury  her  on  Acorn  Hill  among  the  first  of  violets. 
There  let  her  outcast  body  melt  to  flowers  and 
decorate  the  aisles  of  Nature's  silent,  sweet  cathedral. 
SAMUEL.  The  trysting  elm  is  fall'n  across  the  road 
and  everywhere  lie  trees  as  if  they  had  been  stubble 
trampled  down,  and  in  a  furrow  of  the  Three  Oak 
field  a  new-born  babe,  dead  as  a  rat. 

[Enter  Michael] 

MICHAEL.  There's  fearful  news  in  th'  village. 
MAGDALEN.  Say  on.  This  seems  a  judgment  day. 
MICHAEL.  Murder,  love  and  murder.  John  De- 
brow  returned  unto  his  home  to  find  his  home 
betrayed.  He  cut  their  throats,  as  there  they  lay, 
and  then  his  own.  The  place  baptized  in  blood,  and 
sprawling  in  a  pool  of  mingled  blood  his  orphaned 
babe. 

MAGDALEN.  My  God!  My  God!  What  is  this  fiend 
called  Love,  which  thou  hast  put  to  rule  the  world? 
What  hellish  devil  is  black  Jealousy!  That  blackest 
shadow  of  white  love.  That  warted,  all  distorted, 
monstrous  thing  which  sits  upon  the  ear  of  Love  and 
whispers,  "Madness!"  Go  your  ways.  This  is  the 
house  of  Death.  My  husband  is  dead.  Go,  all. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Magdalen] 

MAGDALEN.  There  is  a  poison  in  the  flower  of  Sin. 
It's  fruit  no  sooner  tasted  than  it  cloys.  No  quicker 
40 


had  than  sets  a  ferment  in  which  turns  the  sweet  to 
sour.  I  fear  his  love  will  faint  at  my  red  hand.  I  fear 
that  I  shall  lose  his  love  for  that  which  I  did  do  to 
keep  his  love.  Come  that — come  death.  I'd  rather 
sleep  than  bear  about  a  daily  aching  heart.  I'd  rather 
sleep  than  daily  starve.  I'd  rather  hug  at  once  the 
long  and  dreamless  sleep  than  daily  die.  But  he  shall 
love.  Within  my  heart  such  lakes  of  deep  affection 
are  as  man  has  never  known.  He  shall  not  wed  me. 
I  will  leave  him  free.  It  is  the  iron  tie  which  is  the 
curse  of  love.  The  law  it  is,  not  love,  which  murders, 
shames,  turns  joy  to  hell.  Yea,  I'll  build  our  love 
on  friendship's  solid  rock.  I'll  be  that  pool  about 
whose  edge  he  likes  to  linger,  plucking  flowers  or 
lying  down  to  dream,  or  drinking  strength,  or  plung- 
ing  in — come  out  new-made  and  clean. 

SCENE  V.  MAGDALEN'S  CHAMBER. 


AGD ALEN.  I  have  done  that  to  own  his  love 
which  women  shrink  to  do;  and  lost  his  love 
because  of  that  I  did.  There  is  a  creeping  mil 
dew  growing  on  his  once  so  forward  eagerness.  Oh, 
God!  Oh,  God!  I  hear  a  whisper  from  the  groaning 
vaults  of  Hell,  where  I  must  lie.  [Enter  Edwin] 
My  love,  my  lover,  and  my  life !  All  blessings  on  you. 
Thou  art  the  sun  which  drinks  these  writhing  vapors 
of  the  mind  and  lets  the  sky  show  through.  All  hor 
rors  flee  before  thee  as  do  children's  fears  in  morning 
light. 

EDWIN.  You  give  your  love  too  wastefully.  You 
have  no  other  thought.  This  is  not  good. 
MAGDALEN.  Nay,  is  it  not?  Can  ever  be  too  much 

41 


of  good?  Doth  good  afflict?  If  love  be  truly  good, 
methinks  the  more  'tis  piled  with  eager  hands,  the 
richer  is  the  one  who  takes. 

EDWIN.  Love  is  a  sweet,  and  most  endures  if  Lent 
is  sometimes  kept. 

MAGDALEN.  Speak  not  of  Lenten  love  to  me.  My 
hungry  soul  would  starve  into  a  ghost  too  pitiful,  and 
die.  Starve  not  my  thirsty  soul  with  meagre  Lent, 
dear  heart.  Stretch  not  my  longing  on  a  purgatory 
rack  because  of  some  pale  theory  of  love.  The  utter 
height  of  truest  love  doth  scorn  to  think  Love  is  not 
reasonable.  It  is  a  madness  preciouser  than  health.  A 
phrensy  which  obscures  the  sodden  earth,  and  sets 
the  winged  feet  to  trip  upon  the  sunrise  battlements. 
Thou  art  my  love,  my  life,  my  everything.  See  how 
the  fruitful  earth  expands  her  bosom  to  the  sun,  and 
more  and  more  as  pour  the  fiery  rays,  so  more 
and  more  the  verdure  comes  and  leafage  beautifies 
our  summer  world.  So  I  do  ope  my  bosom  to  thy 
sun  of  love.  I'll  drink  the  blaze,  put  forth  the  buds 
and  tendrils  of  my  joy,  and  ever  long  for  more. 
To  those  who  live  in  body  and  in  friendship  of  the 
mind,  there's  no  such  thing  as  surfeiting  on  love. 
EDWIN.  Such  love  would  burn  its  fruits  as  weeds 
upon  a  rock  in  drought.  You  make  too  much  of  love. 
MAGDALEN.  Aye!  So  I  do.  It  is  my  life. 
EDWIN.  When  shall  I  marry  you? 
MAGDALEN.  Never.  What's  marriage  unto  me? 
You  know  I  scorn  the  marrying  rites  of  priests,  and 
laws  which  make  a  mockery.  True  marriage  needs 
but  two.  That  marriage  we  have  had  and  that,  dear 
Christ,  I've  lost!  A  chilling  change  stands  bodily 
before  my  eyes.  'Tis  palpable.  I  fold  my  battered 
42 


wings  and  close  my  eyes.  You  talk  of  marriage  from 
a  dutiful  and  cooling  heart.  Such  marriage  is  to  me 
but  Hell  and  whoredom,  though  all  the  stale  machin 
ery  of  man  with  solemn  clank  should  forge  the  chain. 
EDWIN.  Nay,  Magdalen. 

MAGDALEN.  Nay,  Edwin,  let  not  pity  prompt 
thee  unto  lies.  I'd  die  to-night  with  smiling  lips  if  I 
might  have  that  love  for  one  short  hour  which  once 
I  had,  and  for  I  love  thee  so,  I  know  thou  lovest  me 
not.  I  know  thy  love  hath  fled  on  frightened  wings 
because  of  my  bad  deed. 
EDWIN.  I  love  thee,  Magdalen.  I  do  —I  do. 
MAGDALEN.  Oh,  God,  'tis  sweet  to  hear  the  lie  we 
long  for.  Kiss  me,  Sweet,  and  kiss  me  close  and  oft 
while  still  I  hear  those  words.  Oh,  Sweetheart,  doest 
thou  think  it  can  be  so?  I  thought  that  I  might  teach 
thee  how  to  love  me  o'er  again.  I'd  lie  so  dog-like 
faithful  at  thy  feet.  I'd  work  so  hard  to  win  thy  love. 
Thou  wouldst  not  need  to  move  thy  lips;  I'd  guess 
thy  thoughts.  Doest  think  thou  canst  forget  I  am  a 
murderer? 

EDWIN.  For  God's  sake,  hush — use  not  that  word. 
MAGDALEN.  Hast  not  thou  used  it  in  thy  heart? 
EDWIN.  Why  probe  me  with  these  useless  ques 
tionings? 

MAGDALEN.  Truth  is  never  useless,  howe'er  it 
hurts.  Let  me  ask  thee  but  one  question  and  answer 
on  thy  soul  as  at  the  judgment  bar.  Thy  love  is  less 
I  know.  I  ask  not  that,  alas!  A  woman  need  not  ask 
if  love  be  sick.  Canst  thou  beneath  the  twinkling 
vault  of  night,  when  silence  is,  still  draw  me  close 
and  in  the  throbbing  hush  forget  this  deed  1  did  for 
love  of  thee?  I  charge  thee  answer  on  thy  soul. 

43 


EDWIN.  I  charge  thee  ask  me  not  such  question 
ings.  Thou  art  half  mad.  I  say  I'll  marry  thee. 
MAGDALEN.  Thou  hast  me  answered.  And  I  did 
need  it  not.  Oh,  how  we  hope  and  hope,  and  longing, 
hope  against  the  dread  which  certainly  we  know.  I 
knew,  I  knew,  I  knew  most  sure.  And  yet  I  hoped 
as  do  the  vile  condemned.  Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  Oh, 
God!  Now  let  me  die.  I  shall  go  mad.  God  send 
me  gentle  death. 

EDWIN.  Hush!  Hush!  [Enter  Sheriff] 

SHERIFF.  (To  Edwin)  I  do  arrest  thee  for  the  crime 
of  murder  done  upon  the  body  of  one  Anthony 
McLane.  Here  is  the  writ. 
EDWIN.  What's  this!  Of  murder,  say  you?  I! 
SHERIFF.  Here  is  the  writ.  This  is  your  name? 
EDWIN.  It  is  my  name.  For  murder  of  your  hus 
band.  I'll  go  with  thee  and  prove  my  innocence. 
MAGDALEN.  Is  there  no  writ  for  me? 
SHERIFF.  No.  None. 

MAGDALEN.  Then  justice  limps  most  cruelly.  I'll 
go  unbid.  As  outcasts  from  the  flock  still  follow 
tho'  undrove. 

EDWIN.  Nay.  If  thoulovest  me  stay!  'Tis  wise  for 
thee — for  me.  There  is  no  haste.  I'll  keep  thee  well 
advised.  I  charge  thee  for  the  moment  stay.  Be  not 
alarmed.  This  matter  will  soon  pass.  I  charge  thee 
on  thy  love,  do  as  I  bid. 

MAGDALEN.  I'll  do  what'er  thou  bid'st  me  do, 
and  yet  I  suffer  too,  too  much. 
EDWIN.  Farewell,  and  truly,  fare -thee -well. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Magdalen] 

MAGDALEN.   Just  God,  here  is  the  end.   There 
yawns  my  grave.  Here  at  my  very  feet.  It  looks  so 
44 


black.  One  step  and  I  am  in.  My  flesh  from  dark 
oblivion  shrinks,  but,  Oh !  I  think  my  weary  soul  will 
be  a  little  glad  to  sleep,  such  long,  long  sleep.  Time 
shall  have  ceased  and  noise  of  tears.  The  sun  for 
me  is  dead.  I'll  see  and  hear  no  more.  Though  he 
should  shout  into  mine  ear,  "Come  back!  I  love 
thee!  Love  thee  as  before!  I  love  thee  as  no  child 
of  loving  Eve  was  ever  loved" — why,  even  then, 
I  shall  not  hear.  I  cannot  come.  My  ears  are  stopped; 
my  eyes  are  shut;  my  mouth  is  stuffed.  Dead!  Dead! 
Gone  back  unto  the  cool,  caressing  grass,  the  kind, 
slow  sisterhood  of  weeds.  Ah!  Ah!  Oh,  God! 

SCENE  VI.  THE  HALL  OF  MAGDALEN'S 
HOUSE. 

Servants  and  Martin. 

|IRST  SERVANT.  You,  Martin,  are  to  wait 
my  mistress  here.  What  news  from  court? 
MARTIN.  Bad  news  for  some  and  good  for 

others,  as  news  ever  is. 

SECOND  SERVANT.  How  doth  the  trial  go? 

MARTIN.  Why,  not  as  some  would  wish  and  to 

the  gayety  of  some. 

FIRST  SERVANT.  Friend  Martin's  like  a  fortune 

teller,  who  looks  wise  and  talks  in  doubles  so  he 

cannot  fail. 

SECOND  SERVANT.  Or  like  a  politician,  saying 

much  and  meaning  naught.  But  truly,  Martin,  tell 

us  of  the  news. 

MARTIN.  I  will,  and  gladly,  to  your  mistress. 

FIRST  SERVANT.  'Till  then  we'll  wait  for  thee 

below.  [Exit  Servants.  Enter  Magdalen] 

45 


MAGDALEN.  What  news,  good  Martin?  Oh,  what 
news?  I  am  as  one  enjailed  and  fed  on  husks.  I 
starve  into  a  fever.  Tell  me,  what's  the  news? 
MARTIN.  Dear  lady,  day  by  day,  like  some  old  cat, 
I've  passed  from  there  to  here  and  here  to  there.  Still 
bearing  provender  to  thee.  And  so  I  come.  He  bids 
thee  be  of  heart  and  hope — and  as  you  love  his  life 
keep  to  yourself  as  you  have  done  at  his  command. 
MAGDALEN.  I  love  his  life  above  my  soul.  I  am 
his  wife,  if  ever  God,  not  man,  made  wives.  Oh, 
Martin,  I,  his  wife,  I  should  be  there,  not  here.  Is 
this  a  way  to  do?  Why  does  he  make  me  suffer  exile 
from  all  I  ought  to  be  and  all  I  long  to  do?  Nay, 
tell  me,  I  conjure  you,  by  your  soul,  the  truth.  The 
very  truth.  Make  my  wet  eyes  to  see  the  very  scenes 
of  truth  and  not  the  hideous  things  which  for  too  long 
have  danced  on  emptiness  before  my  gaze.  Ill  love 
thee  for't.  Speak.  Speak,  man,  speak!  By  your 
mother's  soul,  the  truth. 

MARTIN.  Aye,  by  the  living  God,  I  will!  'Tis  thus. 
It  is  my  opinion  he  stands  on  the  very  gallows'  steps. 
Why,  I  myself  did  testify  that  on  the  morrow  of  the 
storm  I  met  him  at  your  door.  I  must  do  so;  'twas 
true  and  that  too  crafty  villain  Philip  swore  to  this 
and  more — which  I  saw  not  nor  think  he  saw.  It 
hath  been  proved  your  husband  died  of  poison,  not 
disease,  and  many  swear  that  Mister  Graves  was 
constantly  your  visitor. 

MAGDALEN.  Enough.  Get  harness  on  the  swiftest 
horses  of  my  stalls,  Red  Rob  and  Cruelty.  Thou'lt 
take  me  to  the  court. 

MARTIN.  It  is  forbidden  by  his  strict  command. 
MAGDALEN.  And  I  would  follow  his  command 
46 


as  slavish  as  a  dog — but  there's  a  time  'tis  pious  to 
rebel  and  good  to  disobey.  I'll  sit  amid  the  fearful 
hatchings  of  my  brain  no  more.  What!  Dumb  and 
tied,  must  I  see  him,  the  one  I  love,  swept  on  to 
death?  Go!  Haste! 

[Exit  Martin.  Enter  William  Robbins] 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  Good  morning,  Madam. 
Beauty  still  doth  find  your  cheek  her  resting  place. 
MAGDALEN.  Good  morning,  sir.  Talk  not  of 
beauty  to  the  cheek  that's  ready  for  the  worm. 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  Good  Lord! 
MAGDALEN.  Nay,  say  it  not  as  one  who's  pricked 
his  thumb,  but  with  resigned  and  streaming  eyes 
say  most  pathetical,  Good  Lord!  Cry  from  the 
heaving  depths  of  a  most  pitiful  and  bleeding  heart, 
Good  Lord!  How  strange  is  use  and  childish  fibre 
in  the  mind.  I  do  believe  there  is  no  Lord,  and  yet 
I  cry  from  off  this  sinking  raft  I  call  my  life — Good 
Lord!  Help  me,  Good  Lord! 

WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  Do  you,  a  woman,  think 
there  is  no  God,  and  shut  yourself  from  pious 
comfortings? 

MAGDALEN.  And  who  shall  say  there  is  a  God? 
A  wise  and  loving  master  of  the  whole  machine. 
No,  no,  I  pray  you  mark  the  tears  of  misery,  the 
narrow  bed  and  starving  crust  of  Virtue;  Vice  in 
gilded  coach  with  lackeyed  ease.  The  noble  raped 
by  death;  the  most  vile  spared.  The  little  children 
fed  to  giant  Want.  The  wicked  strong  triumphant, 
and  the  glorious  weak  close  penned  in  camps  of 
death.  See  how,  with  blind  indifference,  the  fairest 
flower  of  all  is  broke  and  weeds  are  left  to  grow. 
Is  there  a  God  you  think  who  having  power  to  stop 
47 


the  agonized  tear  and  smooth  the  jars  of  this  too 
rough  and  topsy-turvey  world  would  sleep  indiffer 
ent  and  deaf?  There's  not  a  wreck  but  answers,  No ! 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  Believe  me,  this  is  dreadful 
to  the  true  religious  heart.  'Twill  surely  shock  the 
world. 

MAGDALEN.  Why,  if  'tis  true,  the  world  must  be 
resigned,  and  if  not  true,  it  matters  not. 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  think  you  are  not  well,  and 
yet  you  look  not  ill. 

MAGDALEN.  So  much  the  worse,  for  I  am  ill. 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  do  regret  this  much.  I  came 
to  speak  of  Edwin  Graves  and  you.  It  grieves  my 
soul  to  see  him  thus,  for  there's  no  help.  'Tis  proved 
that  he  must  die.  Your  life  stands  too  in  peril,  but 
may  yet  be  saved. 

MAGDALEN.  My  life  in  peril?  I  thank  thee,  God! 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  You  live  retired;  you  hear 
it  not.  But  you  are  in  peril.  Yet  if,  as  I  should  say, 
you  would — and  I  see  not  why  you  would  not — if 
you  would  come  beneath  my  sure  protection  and 
my  love,  they  would  not  dare  to  touch  what  was 
mine  own.  I  am  rich  and  am  a  godly  man. 
MAGDALEN.  Why,  he  is  innocent.  The  law  doth 
surely  not  desire  the  innocent  to  die. 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  Nay,  he  is  doomed.  For  him 
I  can  do  naught,  nor  will.  But  you — 
MAGDALEN.  What  was  it  you  said? 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  said— I  say— 
MAGDALEN.  Nay,  what  you  said  or  say  is  naught 
to  me.  I  am  not  well.  I  beg  you  go. 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  say  if  that  you  will  not  link 
your  fate  with  mine  you'll  die. 
48 


MAGDALEN,  Aye,  so  I  think.  I  think  so  too.  Death 

is  a  master  hard  to  cheat. 

WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  mean  upon  the  scaffold 

shamefully  you'll  die. 

MAGDALEN.  I  think  the  dead  do  little  heed  what 

way  they  died. 

WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  come  to  save  you.  Sure 

the  young  and  beautiful  like  not  to  die. 

MAGDALEN.  Then  learn  from  me,  about  to  die, 

that  Love's  not  purchaseable.  That  in  this  busy 

world  are  women  who  will  die  for  love;  and  love 

being  denied,  all  life  is  gone;  the  green  earth  is  dried 

and  shriveled;  no  laughter  in  the  brooks;  no  song 

in  birds;  no  comfort  in  the  whisperings  of  fringed 

trees.  And  if  they  cannot  have  the  very  love  they 

crave,  they  creep  away  with  broken  wing  to  die.  I 

say  to  you,  prepare  for  death !  You  have  much  need. 

I  see  a  death  glow  on  your  cheek,  a  death  dank  in 

your  hair.  Go  you,  prepare  to  die.  You  are  but  flesh, 

and  flesh  is  soil  for  death.  Death  is  your  bride. 

You  need  not  seek  her.  She  is  on  your  track  and 

pressing  on.  Prepare  I  say — 

WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  I  think  she's  going  mad. 

[Enter  MartinJ 
MARTIN.  All  is  prepared. 

MAGDALEN.  And  so  we  go — to  my  grave  I,  and 
you  to  yours.  Come,  Martin,  haste.  I  never  was  so 
feverish  for  cool,  fair  death. 

[Exit  Magdalen  and  Martin] 
WILLIAM  ROBBINS.  She's  mad!  She's  mad! 


49 


SCENE  VII.  THE  COURT  ROOM. 

Judge,  Jury,  Clerk,  Bailiffs,  Prosecuting  Attorney 
and  others. 

JUDGE.  Bring  in  the  prisoner.  [Enter  Sheriff 

with  Edwin] 

ATTORNEY.  One  word.  (To  Edwin)  Again 
I  say,  you  stand  in  peril  of  your  life.  A  woman's 
presence  oft  is  eloquent  and  pity  puts  to  rout  the 
strongest  proof.  I  pray  you  let  me  bid  her  come. 
'Tis  most  imperative. 

EDWIN.  Again  I  say  I  will  not  have  her  here.  Let 
us  go  on. 

ATTORNEY.  I'm  ready,  please  the  Court. 
JUDGE.  Now  call  the  jury  roll. 

[Roll  is  called.  All  answer] 
CLERK.  The  jury  is  complete. 
JUDGE.  The  trial  may  proceed. 
PROSECUTING    ATTORNEY.    Let    Benjamin 
Badeau  resume  the  stand.     [Benjamin  stands  forth] 
Conclude  your  evidence. 
BENJAMIN.  Must  I  go  on? 
PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  You  must. 
BENJAMIN.  The  night  my  master  died— it  was  a 
wild  and  dismal  night — I  crept  with  silent  steps 
and   awe -held  breath  into  the  chamber  of  the 
dead. 

PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  For  what? 
BENJAMIN.  To  mend  the  fire. 
PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  Go  on. 
BENJAMIN.  There  was  no  sound  but  slow  death 
ticking  of  a  clock  and  on  his  bed  my  master  slept — 
or  what  had  been  my  master  lay  as  if  asleep — and 
50 


here,  beside  his  bed,  upon  the  floor — he  could  have 
touched  it — lay  this  handkerchief. 

[Enter  Magdalen] 

PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  This  handkerchief? 
BENJAMIN.  This  handkerchief. 
PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.    Whose    is    this 
handkerchief? 

BENJAMIN.  It  is  the  prisoner's. 
MAGDALEN.  I  charge  you  stop!    Why  vex  the 
world  with   all   this  tedious   circumstance  when 
Truth  stands  ready  at  your  hand?  I  killed  my 
husband  —  I  — 

EDWIN.  For  God's  sake,  Magdalen! 
PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  May  it  please  the 
Court,  we  do  object. 
MAGDALEN.  Object!  Object  to  truth! 
PROSECUTING  ATTORNEY.  There  will  be  a 
proper  time  for  this;  not  now. 
MAGDALEN.   Forgive  my  ignorance.    I  did  sup 
pose  all  rules  were  meant  to  point  the  honest  way 
and  every  rule  would  bend  to  save  a  life.  I  say 
'twas  I  alone  who  killed  my  husband. 
JUDGE.  The  law  is  tender  of  a  life  and  will  not  let 
you,  unadvised,  proclaim  your  guilt  and  seek  a 
shameful  death. 

MAGDALEN.  Is  law  so  tender  of  a  life  it  will  not 
let  me  tell  the  truth  to  save  one  innocent,  but  puts 
its  shutters  up  and  bars  its  doors?  I  say  again,  'twas 
I  alone  who  killed  my  husband.  There's  no  power 
of  God,  or  man,  or  long  delay,  or  prison  fare,  or 
death  will  make  me  alter  in  this  truth. 
JUDGE.  I  do  advise  you  all  you  say  may  on  your 
trial  be  retold  against  you. 

51 


MAGDALEN.  I  do  so  understand.  Why  not?  Tis 
true. 

JUDGE.  Let  her  be  sworn. 

PROSECUTING   ATTORNEY.   But  we   object. 
The  prosecution  has  not  closed. 
JUDGE.  Are  you  the  advocate  for  truth  or  death? 
I  say  I'll  hear  her  now.  Let  her  be  sworn. 
CLERK.  You,  Magdalen  McLane,  do  swear  to  tell 
the  truth  and  all  the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth, 
so  help  you  God? 

MAGDALEN.  I  do — so  help  me  God.  So  help  me 
God!  Oh,  I  have  need  of  help.  My  story  is  soon 
told.  It  is  not  new.  I  loved  not  when  I  wed.  Therein 
was  I  to  blame — but  I  was  very  young  and  after 
wedding  I  recoiled  into  some  arctic,  love-deserted 
place  and  pushed  my  husband  out.  And  then  I 
loved  another  man.  Oh,  I  was  bred  religiously.  I 
knelt  beside  my  narrow  bed  and  prayed  for  help. 
I  clenched  my  fist  against  the  far,  dumb  sky.  I  wept 
upon  my  arms  and  often  knelt  the  long  night  through 
with  sobbing  moans  beseeching  God  to  tear  this 
devil,  love,  from  out  my  heart.  It  fed  upon  my  tears. 
I  was  possessed  of  love.  I  have  not  seen  another 
one  who  loved  as  I.  It  drew  my  very  soul  as  is  the 
battling  and  rebellious  sea  drawn  into  tides,  or  as 
the  earth  is  drawn  upon  her  wind-swept  path.  I 
could  not  more  resist,  and  blind  with  happiness, 
and  soothed,  I  said,  "God's  will  be  done."  So  lost 
myself  in  him  who  is  the  sun  and  center  of  my 
universe.  I  knew  no  shame.  I  felt  a  greater  than  a 
priest  had  blessed;  a  law,  not  made  by  man,  had 
ratified.  I  told  my  husband  all  and  begged  release. 
He  held  me  tighter  in  his  lawful  bond.  His  lawful 
52 


bond!  A  madness  seized  my  mind.  "If  I  were 
free — if  I  were  free — if  only  I  were  free.  The  home, 
the  happiness,  the  child,  the  bliss  as  perfect  as  a 
half-wrecked  vessel  finds  when  out  of  all  the  wild 
tumultuous  roar  she  rounds  some  sheltering  cape 
and  rides  mid  little,  playful  waves."  Then  came  this 
sickness  and  I  said  unto  myself,  "He  holds  me  by 
the  law  until  Death  do  part.  Then  Death  shall  part." 
The  poison,  ready  to  my  hand,  I  gave  it  him.  But  all 
for  love.  Indeed  I  did,  I  did  it  all  for  love.  I  would 
have  been  so  glad  to  have  him  live.  I  hate  not  any 
one,  but  I  did  love  too  much.  My  love,  my  Edwin, 
was  with  me  that  night.  It  was  a  wild  and  terrible 
night,  and  when  the  thing  was  done  by  me  alone  I 
called  him  in  and  he  stood  fixed — displeased.  My 
heart,  like  some  spring  flower  which  feels  the  frost, 
grew  chill,  for  I  did  know  that  in  that  instant  he  had 
changed  to  me,  and  there  he  dropped  his  hand 
kerchief  and  my  poor  life.  Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  Oh, 
God! 

EDWIN.  She  is  o'er  wrought.  Quick!  She  falls. 
JUDGE.  Call  a  physician. 

EDWIN.  See!  Her  spirit  hath  repented  of  its  flight 
and  now  resumes  its  earthly  tenement.  She  breathes. 
She  opes  her  eyes.  'Tis  I.  'Tis  Edwin,  Magdalen! 
MAGDALEN.  Nay,  let  me  rise.  I  know  you  well. 
You  are  that  ghost  which  dogs  my  heels  and  cries 
into  my  ear,  False!  False!  False! 
EDWIN.  My  God!  Her  looks!  I'm  Edwin.  Look. 
I  am  your  very  Edwin! 

MAGDALEN.  My  very  Edwin!  No — I  know  you, 
Edwin,  and  I  am  not  mad.  You  are  not  my  Edwin, 
for  I  am  the  bride  of  worms.  I  killed  my  husband. 

53 


You  do  know  that  true — and  so  I  killed  your  love — 
and  so  I  die. 

PHYSICIAN.  She  is  not  mad.  She  knows  her  words. 
JUDGE.  Then  must  she  tread  the  gallows'  step. 
Alas,  the  pigmy  clumsiness  of  man — take  her  from 
hence.  O,  what  a  fragile  ball  we  juggle  with! 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  PART 


54 


THE  THIRD  PART 

OF  THE 
MASQUE  OF  LOVE 


A  MASQUE  OF  LOVE:  THE  THIRD  PART. 

SCENE  I.  A  WREN  SINGING  ON  A  COTTAGE 
ROOF-PEAK. 

SONG  OF  THE  WREN. 

| WAKE!  Awake!  Awake!  Let  all  things 
awake  and  praise  the  coming  of  the  sun. 
Behold  the  East  is  flushing — the  silent 
night  has  gone  and  the  jubilant  day  com- 
eth.  Sing!  Sing!  Sing!  Let  every  living 
thing  sing  the  gladness  of  its  life  unto  the  god  of  light. 
See!  See!  See!  His  arrows  shoot  into  the  silvern 
sky.  He  is  coming.  All  things  hush!  He  bursts  upon 
the  world.  The  sky  is  blue  again.  The  sun  has  come. 
O,  warm  and  beautiful  god!  How  beautiful  is  the 
world!  How  glorious  is  the  morning!  The  sun  work  - 
eth  the  springtime.  Spring  is  tip-toeing  upon  the  hills. 
He  will  awaken  the  earth  with  kisses.  Sing  out  my 
heart  until  my  throat  doth  almost  burst.  I  am  full  of 
love.  I  sing  to  thee,  and  for  thee,  my  little  brown 
mate.  Oh,  how  sweet  thou  art — how  soft  and  warm 
and  delicate.  A  hunger  for  thee  consumes  me,  my 
lovely  one.  How  prettily  you  fly.  How  daintily  you 
swing  upon  the  rose  twig.  How  quick  is  the  turn  of 
your  neck.  How  bright  are  your  eyes.  Oh,  I  must 
pursue  you,  my  little,  brown,  beautiful  one.  There  is 
something  which  calls  me  to  thee — which  binds  me 
to  thee.  Let  me  sing  or  I  shall  die.  Sing!  Sing!  Sing! 
the  love  madness,  the  life  gladness  which  is  within 
me.  I  sing  to  the  beautiful  blue  sky— to  the  smiling 
brown  earth,  now  blushing  green  —  opening  and 
budding  everywhere — starred  all  over  with  the 

57 


crocuses  and  jonquils,  dandelions  and  violets  and 
snowdrops.  The  peeping  buds  of  willow  and  of 
birch  prick  their  stems.  The  alder  —  the  maple  — 
the  chestnut — and  all  trees  are  awakening.  See! 
See!  See!  my  tiny,  brown  feather-ball,  here  it  is. 
Here  is  the  dark  secure  little  chamber  where  I  came 
to  life.  Here  we  shall  have  young  ones.  Here,  amid 
the  roses,  in  this  little  hole  close  up  under  the  roof. 
Here  you  shall  sit  upon  the  dear  speckled  eggs 
which  we  shall  love  so  much.  Quick!  Quick!  Grass 
and  straw  and  hair  caught  for  us  by  the  bushes  from 
the  kindly  cows  and  horses  of  the  pasture.  Kind 
bushes!  And  down  for  the  lining,  soft  as  thy 
breast.  My  little  one,  my  warm,  little  feather-ball. 
Quick!  Quick!  I  cannot  wait.  O,  god  of  day!  O, 
beautiful  sky  and  budding  things,  I  have  poured  out 
my  heart  to  ye!  I  have  told  ye  my  love.  The  sun 
is  now  looking  at  me.  He  tells  us  to  work  and  build 
our  home.  Quick!  Quick!  My  sweet,  little  brown 
mate.  Let  us  build  our  home  and  make  ready  for 
the  little  ones.  Oh,  how  anxiously  we  shall  feed 
them.  Come!  Come!  Come! 

[Enter  Mary  and  Alfred] 

ALFRED.  Hail  morning!  Ruddy  and  sweet  and 
born  anew. 

MARY.  The  wrens  have  returned.  How  wonderful ! 
At  the  appointed  hour,  from  the  far  Southland, 
through  haunting  perils,  they  appear  and  begin  the 
making  of  a  home.  How  tender  is  the  God  who 
hath  preserved  them. 

ALFRED.  There  is  no  such  God!  Nay!  In  the  long 
flight  many  have  fallen.  How  cruel  is  the  God  who 
hath  permitted  their  death!  Nay!   There  is  none 
58 


such,  cruel  or  pitiful,  but  only  one  great  law,  neither 
cruel  nor  merciful,  but  only  just. 
MARY.  No  God! 

ALFRED.  Gods  are  the  creatures  of  man,  changing 
as  man  changes.  The  God  of  Asia  is  not  the  God  of 
Europe.  The  God  of  Moses  not  the  God  of  today. 
The  divine  commands  of  one  age  are  the  horrors 
of  another  age.  Nay,  Sweetheart,  let  us  not  rest  upon 
a  God,  but  upon  ourselves,  with  hope  in  the  working 
of  the  universal  law  and  resignation  to  the  universal 
end.  We  are  but  visions  of  a  moment.  How  endless 
is  the  life  procession!  Millions  have  been  and  shall 
be.  Creation  was  not  for  us,  ourselves.  Nay,  not  for 
man — chief  insect  on  this  pettiest  ball.  Let  us  meet 
the  waves  of  time  with  what  they  bring,  saying  of 
all,  "This  hath  been  and  shall  be."  Saying  unto  evil, 
as  of  good,  "This  too  must  end."  Leaning  not  upon 
God,  but  on  that  within  us  which  hath  made  all  gods. 
MARY.  But  it  is  comforting  to  rest  our  burdens  upon 
another.  To  draw  courage  from  a  guardian  all- 
powerful. 

ALFRED.  And  what  does  he  help?  Does  he  thwart 
the  laws  of  flood,  or  fire,  or  dread  disease  because 
of  goodness  or  of  prayers?  The  universal  mystery 
we  shall  never  know.  Put  by  this  larger  man.  This 
God;  he  hath  been  made  by  man. 
MARY.  Thou  art  my  God. 

ALFRED.  Nay,  not  that!  Put  me  so  high  and  I  shall 
fall.  I  am  thy  friend.  O,  Sweetheart,  God  and 
Heaven  and  Hell  are  in  ourselves.  In  thee  I  find 
my  Heaven — my  inspiration  and  my  peace. 
MARY.  My  well  beloved.  Let  me  kiss  thine  eyes. 
ALFRED.  Let  us  be  in  the  world  and  of  the  world 

59 


and  yet  above  the  world.  The  competition  to  out- 
grasp.  The  cheat  of  politics,  where  shallowest  trick 
sters  win  the  day  and  hollowest  skulls  ring  loudest. 
The  triumph  of  shrewd  robbery.  The  seers  and 
prophets  scorned.  The  upward  progress  of  mankind 
so  slow  you  cannot  note  it  move.  This  breathless 
racing  is  the  law  of  life,  if  only  it  were  free.  And 
all  the  good  of  Hope  and  Charity  and  Poetry  and 
Love — that,  too,  is  from  man.  There  is  no  founda 
tion  for  aught  good  or  ill  but  man  himself.  See! 
The  wrens  are  building. 

MARY.  Cunning  architects.  Above  philosophy  and 
satisfied  in  love. 

ALFRED.  And  I.  As  so  I  would  were  all  the  world. 
All  free.  Each  satisfied  to  live  the  life  of  utter  truth 
and  die  uncaring. 

MARY.  All  satisfied  with  only  love. 
ALFRED.  Our  love  is  blending  of  the  mastering, 
mating  passion  and  of  friendship  of  true  souls.  The 
fires  of  love  kept  glowing  by  the  wholesome  airs  of 
dear  companionship.  There  is  a  love  which  binds 
these  pretty  wrens.  A  hot  desire.  Great  Nature's 
spur  —  mere  mating.  It  is  passing.  It  breeds  and 
there's  the  end.  Great  Nature's  turn  is  served.  The 
race  will  live.  But  there's  a  love  of  minds.  A  melting 
of  twin  souls.  An  endless,  high  companionship.  'Tis 
folly  to  bind  fast  this  only  breeding  love.  As  well 
decree  eternal  mating  of  these  wrens.  But  when  'tis 
intermingled  with  this  ever-growing  marriage  of  the 
soul,  there  is  a  union  needs  no  law  to  bless. 
MARY.  Oh,  who  would  keep  a  love  that  has  grown 
cold,  as  if  it  were  a  chattel  thing  to  be  held  by  law? 
Of  all  the  follies,  laws  are  worst.  Most  useless  where 
60 


there  is  not  love,  most  needless  where  it  is.  Come, 
see  my  hens,  which  sit  so  solemnly  upon  their  nests. 
What  stirs  in  them  affection  for  those  smooth,  round 
eggs  and  keeps  them  patient  to  their  charge?  What 
is  it  makes  their  anxious  motherhood  to  guard  and 
feed  their  chicks  and  teaches  them  to  know  their  own? 
ALFRED.  I'll  tell  thee  by  another  question.  What 
makes  the  salmon  leave  its  salty  home  and  press 
unto  the  farthest  mountain  brook,  there  in  the  clear 
and  pebbly  pools  to  lay  her  eggs?  What  makes  the 
silver-sided,  lusty  he  to  follow  close  and  milk  his 
seed  upon  those  eggs?  And  there,  past  hope  to 
breathe  the  sea  again,  to  die?  What  makes  the  queen 
bee  soar  but  once  into  the  skyey  depths?  What 
makes  the  glistening  drones  pursue  her  and  the 
eagerest  of  them  all  find  in  the  instant  of  his  joy 
that  love  is  death?  Aye,  who  shall  answer  what 
means  this  dumb,  mad  race  that  life  shall  live, 
indifferent  who  may  die? 

MARY.  Why  should  we  answer,  dear?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  you  and  I  have  found  each  other  out 
of  all  the  world?  That  we  do  live,  and  that  the 
world  is  beautiful?  And  when  we  die,  we  shall 
together  sleep,  and  still  the  world  shall  be  above  us 
beautiful.  And  others,  too,  shall  love  and  set  their  feet 
upon  our  paths  and  laugh  where  we  have  laughed. 

ALFRED. 

Tis  good  to  feel,  tho'  I  must  soon  be  merged 
In  quiet  Earth,  yet  shall  the  blabbing  rill 
From  Spring's  quick  showers  go  tumbling  down 
the  hill 

All  sodden  with  warm  rain.  From  sadness  purged, 

61 


The  lover's  heart  shall  sing,  his  blood  be  urged 
By  Springtime's  throbbing  ecstacy;  and  still 
Shall  ear  rejoice  to  catch  the  call  and  trill 
Of  mating  larks  or  cuckoos'  mocking  dirge. 
Let  shine  the  willows,  silver  tipped  i'  the  sun, 
Earth's  whisper  catching  first  of  all  the  trees. 
Let  waken  all  the  hives  of  crawling  bees, 
And  crystal  drops  shine  every  twig  upon. 
Yea,  I  am  glad  still  shall  the  waters  run, 
The  love  notes  swell,  tho'  I  know  none  of  these. 

[Enter  Harold,  a  Fool.] 
MARY.  Good  morning,  Harold. 
HAROLD.  Harold  likes  the  sun.  It  is  warm.  The 
devils  all  sleep  when  the  flowers  are  blooming. 
Good  sun.  Good  sun. 
ALFRED.  How  is  Harold  this  day? 
HAROLD.  Harold  is  glad.  He  will  not  chop  any 
more  wood.  His  fingers  will  not  freeze  when  he 
milks  the  cows.  Summer  is  coming.  I  have  a  lamb. 
It  is  a  foolish  thing. 
MARY.  But  you  must  love  it. 
HAROLD.  What  is  love?  Let  me  see  your  hand. 
Pretty.  Pretty.  How  they  sparkle  in  the  sun  —  red 
and  white  and  green.  Are  they  little  flowers? 
MARY.  No,  they  are  stones. 

HAROLD.  Flowers  are  prettier.   Tulips  are  red, 
and  the  crocus  and  hyacinths  white  and  purple. 
Violets  are  blue. 
MARY.  But  they  will  die. 

HAROLD.  What  is  to  die?  See  your  peach  trees. 
They  are  all  tricked  out  in  pink.  That  is  pretty. 
ALFRED.  And  by  and  by  you  shall  have  peaches. 
HAROLD.  I  like  peaches.  Do  you  know  what  the 
62 


peaches  do?  Listen.  They  chase  away  the  fine, 
pink,  dainty  lady-blossoms,  and  stand  big  and  sweet 
where  the  blossoms  were.  Whyisthat?  Ilikepeaches. 
The  sun  makes  them.  I  have  watched  the  sun  whis 
pering  to  the  little  green  balls  till  they  swelled  up 
big  and  red.  So  proud.  I'll  bring  my  lamb.  He  is  a 
little  fool.  Sucking  milk  and  playing  in  the  sun  all 
day.  A  foolish  little  fool.  [Exit  Harold.] 

MARY.  Poor  young  man! 

ALFRED.  Indeed,  poor  boy!  Alas!  that  man,  the 
topmost  animal,  should  ever  see  the  only  jewel  in 
his  crown  so  dimmed.  And  yet  it  is  a  cushion  to  the 
buffets  of  the  world;  a  wall  which  fences  out  self- 
consciousness  and  questioning — remorse — regret — 
and  sorrow  for  lost  joy.  It  puts  away  that  rack  on 
which  the  mind  will  stretch  itself  of  why  and  where 
fore.  How  have  we  come?  Whence  shall  we  go?  It 
gives  that  mute  content  these  placid  cows  bear  in 
their  eyes.  The  greatest  jewel  is  a  peaceful  soul. 
MARY.  For  that  great  jewel  would  you  surrender  up 
the  restless,  probing  mind  and  wondrous  memory? 
ALFRED.  Nay.  Mind  is  power  and  sense  of  being. 
We  would  not  yield  it,  though  we  walk  in  Hell.  But 
I  do  envy  careless  birds ;  and  bees,  with  their  one, 
all-absorbing  purpose.  Kine  and  sheep,  and  all  these 
lower  brethren  who  take  the  gift  of  life  and  are  content. 
Peace,  Peace!  Just  Peace!  That  is  my  cry.  I  am  not 
young.  I  am  not  old.  But  I  am  young  enough  to  know 
how  soft  thy  lips.  How  deeper  than  the  skies  thine 
eyes.  And  old  enough  to  know  there  is  no  prize  in  all 
ambition's  press  which  equals  living  peace.  Ere  yet 
we  take  that  dumb  and  lasting  peace  upon  her  breast. 
MARY.  Art  thou  at  peace? 

63 


ALFRED.  At  perfect  peace  —  born  of  thy  love. 
We'll  have  as  much  or  little  of  the  world  as  we  do 
choose.  Come,  let  us  prune  our  orchards,  walk 
among  our  honey  colonies  which  have  awaked  at 
coming  summer's  touch  and  gild  themselves  upon 
the  willows  and  the  alders'  pollen.  Speak  with  the 
sparrows  in  the  hawthorne  hedge  and  watch  the 
kindly  motherhood  of  hens  and  ewes  and  cows. 
Receive  the  adulation  of  our  honest  hounds. 
MARY.  And  I,  O  thank  the  great  eternal  mystery, 
am  quick  within  me  and  shall  be  mother  too. 
ALFRED.  My  love!  My  love! 

SONG  OF  THE  WREN. 

Let  us  pause  a  moment  in  our  building  while  I  sit 
above  our  secret  home  and  sing  the  love  which  is 
in  me.  I  cannot  help  but  sing.  Love!  Love!  Love! 
My  pretty  brown  mate,  with  the  gentle  eyes,  I  love 
thee.  Ilovethee.  See!  See!  See!  Our  home  is  build 
ing.  Our  pretty  home  —  so  dark — so  secret.  There 
thou  wilt  lay  and  nurse  the  little  white  eggs  we  love 
so  much.  There,  amid  the  roses,  where  the  sweet- 
smelling  rose-buds  will  hang  even  in  our  door,  and 
I  will  sit  here  above  thee  and  sing  to  thee,  Oh  so 
madly,  a  psalm  of  love! 

SCENE  II.  A  BED  CHAMBER. 


LFRED.  Ah,  God!  Thy  suffering! 

MARY.  All  and  more  for  thy  dear  sake. 

Even  through  the  gates  of  death. 
ALFRED.  Let  me  wipe  thy  brow. 
MARY.  Nay.  Let  me  hold  thy  hands  and  wring 
them  in  my  agony.  Oh! 
64 


[The  cry  of  a  new-born  babe  is  heard.] 
ALFRED.  There  is  thy  reward,  dear  heart.  Once 
more  the  world  hears  the  wail  of  a  new-born  life. 
The  eternal  cry  out  of  the  unknown  into  the  un 
known.  A  man  is  born. 

MARY.  To  my  ears  it  is  as  if  it  were  the  very  first 
on  earth.  Oh,  give  him  me !  My  baby  boy !  Lay  thy 
velvet  cheek  on  mine,  my  sweet.  Wilt  love  thy 
mother?  I  have  suffered  for  thee. 
ALFRED.  'Tis  just  begun.  And  be  he  faultless,  yet 
he'll  never  know  and  never  will  repay  to  thee  thy 
years  of  brooding  care,  save  to  another,  as  thou 
doest  now  repay  thy  mother's  debt.  But  we  shall 
joy  in  him.  O,  how  I  love  thee!  How  this  little, 
living  bond  doth  tie  me  to  thee!  Let  me  comfort 
thee  with  kisses.  My  heart  goes  out  to  thee  and 
I  am  proud.  Our  boy!  My  boy!  I  made  him!  I!  I 
gave  him  life!  His  eyes  are  violet  blue  like  thine. 
MARY.  O,  no!  I  want  him  all  my  copy  of  thee. 
See!  O!  Who  hath  taught  him  to  seek  his  mother's 
breasts  and  suck?  Ah!  It  is  sweet.  I  thank  thee,  love. 
ALFRED.  This  is  our  flower. 
MARY.  Our  bud.  Our  precious  bud. 
ALFRED.  Now  sleep,  thou  sweet  mother.  Thou 
hast  wrought  a  mystery. 

MARY.  Stay  by  me,  so  whene'er  I  lift  mine  eyes 
I'll  see  thee. 
ALFRED.  Rest! 


65 


SCENE  III.  A  MEADOW.  A  BROOK,  FRINGED 
WITH  WILLOWS. 

Edgar,  first-born  son  of  Mary  and  Alfred.  Harold. 

DGAR.  You  always  catch  the  most,  Harold. 
HAROLD.  Harold  knows  the  fish.  He  coaxes 
them.  He  wishes  them  upon  thehookand  they 


come.  They  are  pretty  —  red  freckles  and  black.  So 
slim  and  so  quick.  How  they  jump  upon  the  line.  But 
Harold  holds  them,  and  presently  they  wink  at  him 
with  their  gills  once,  twice,  and  are  still. 
EDGAR.  Why  do  they  die  so  soon  out  of  water? 
HAROLD.  Harold  doesn't  know.  I  saw  a  man  once 
taken  from  the  mill  pond.  He  was  white  and  still. 
He  splashed  and  jumped  like  the  trout  for  a  minute, 
and  when  he  was  taken  from  the  water  they  put 
him  in  a  hole.  I  was  glad.  He  used  to  beat  me. 
EDGAR.  No  one  beats  you  now. 
HAROLD.  No!  Harold  is  too  strong. 
EDGAR.  You  said  you  would  show  me  how  to 
trap  rabbits. 

HAROLD.  Hush!  They  are  devils!  They  hear 
everything.  Their  ears  are  wagging  this  way,  that 
way.  They'll  hear  us  now  and  tell  their  master. 
Come  close.  Wait  till  the  oak  leaves  fall.  I'll  show 
you  then. 

EDGAR.  My  mother  says  there  are  no  devils  — 
except  men. 

HAROLD.  Hush!  Have  you  never  seen  faces  look 
ing  from  the  trunks  of  old  oaks  and  beeches?  Has 
your  mother  seen  the  rabbit  listening  at  night  under 
the  window  and  talking  to  the  moon?  Come  closer. 
I  saw  the  devil  once.  He  was  all  black.  He  changed 
66 


into  a  crow  and  flew  up  to  the  moon,  laughing  and 
screaming.  I've  had  women  wave  to  me,  and  when 
I  came  they  changed  to  bushes,  or  I  heard  them 
stealing  off,  and  voices  everywhere  —  by  the  brook 
and  in  the  forest,  saying  to  me,  "Come!  Come! 
Come!  All  will  be  beautiful."  But  I  can  never  find 
them.  They  are  like  the  air.  Is  that  not  devils? 
EDGAR.  It  is  growing  dark.  Let  us  go  home. 
HAROLD.  Ah!  Ha!  The  dark.  Then  is  their  time. 
They  see  like  cats.  I've  seen  their  shining  eyes. 
Cats  are  devils  too. 

EDGAR.  Give  me  your  hand,  Harold.  Let  us  go 
home.  [Enter  Alfred  and  Mary.] 

MARY.  You  wicked  children.  We  are  looking  for 
you. 

HAROLD.  Harold  is  not  wicked. 
MARY.  No,  no,  good  Harold.  You  are  very  good. 
And  now  you  shall  come  home  and  have  hot  bread 
and  cream  and  honey. 

HAROLD.  Hot  bread  and  cream  and  honey.  Oh, 
that  is  good.  See  what  a  lot  of  fish. 
MARY.  Poorprettylings.  Your  darting  motion  gone. 
Your  bright  eyes  glazed.  All  still. 
ALFRED.  And  so  in  time  must  we — and  all. 
HAROLD.    Not  Harold.    I  never  shall  be  still. 
They'll  never  put  me  in  a  hole.  I'm  big  and  strong 
now.  Stronger  than  all.  I  will  not  let  them. 
MARY.  O  blessed  Hope  and  Faith !  Ye  jewels  of  the 
simple  mind.  Go  home,  Harold  and  Edgar.  We  shall 
follow. 

ALFRED.  Is  not  truth  always  good? 
MARY.  Yes,  truth  is  the  one  eternal  goal.  Nothing 
can  be  better.  Nothing  must  obscure  it. 

67 


ALFRED.  If  Hope  and  Faith  be  not  true,  but  airy 
visions  born  of  dread,  then  put  them  by  and  learn 
a  newer  strength  born  of  the  equal  justice  of  eternal 
laws. 

MARY.  But  what  if  Hope  and  Faith  be  true? 
ALFRED.  If  true,  they'll  be  all  true.  Truth  is  a 
perfect  crystal  without  flaw.  Hark  to  that  cat-bird 
minstrelsing  from  out  the  hedge  his  joy  to  live. 
That  is  the  truth. 

MARY.  The  stars  are  stealing  into  place.  They  are 
the  truth. 

ALFRED.  And  to  the  stars  what  is  man  or  bird? 
Oh,  warbler  from  the  dusk,  once  more  from  your 
dark  privacy  you  shout  your  psalm  and  prayer! 
As  so  shall  mine  be;  glad  of  my  days  and  nights, 
content  to  win  my  living  from  earth's  lips,  content 
to  close  my  eyes  unfretful  of  the  mystery  which 
heeds  me  not.  I  too  have  fished,  and  in  the  whis 
pering  days  of  June,  beside  the  sweet,  discoursing 
brook,  I've  watched  the  shadows  of  the  May-flies 
dance.  Than  those  frail  ghosts,  we,  in  the  make-up 
of  the  worlds,  are  less.  Than  that  brief  moment  life 
and  love  are  briefer. 

MARY.  Say  not  love  is  brief.  How  have  we  loved 
in  growing  loveliness  these  slow-paced  years.  It 
hath  been  long,  and  Fate,  I  thank  thee,  that  it  hath 
been  so.  And  I  do  love  to  dream  that  love  shall  not 
end,  but  we,  though  but  as  shadows  once  again, 
shall  meet  and  kiss. 

ALFRED.  Sweet  dream.  Sweet  dreamer.  Man  dies: 
his  dreams  do  live.  The  strongest  bones  must  rot; 
the  burliest  oak  must  fall.  There  is  no  edifice  today 
but  trees  shall  grow  in  its  halls.  The  rock-ribbed 
68 


mountains  of  the  earth  are  slowly  melting  to  the 
sea.  But  those  fictions  which  men  rapturously  have 
coined  from  air,  they  are  immortal.  Flesh  shall  die, 
but  thought  shall  live. 

MARY.  You  mean  that  we  shall  die,  but  dreams 
of  happy  love  and  the  story  of  our  loving  dream 
shall  live? 

ALFRED.  Aye!  Year  after  year,  as  to  the  same 
small  den  beneath  our  roof  the  wrens  return.  As 
wake  the  bees  as  soon  as  spring  whispers  at  the 
hive.  As  with  an  upward  passion,  tender  buds  do 
shoot  and  ferns  uncurl.  As  our  brown  fields  turn 
sheets  of  green,  or  hens  do  cluck,  or  ewes  do  bleat, 
or  thunder-throated  bulls  do  paw  the  earth.  As  sure 
as  love  makes  over  all  the  world  each  singing  year 
by  year,  so  shall  our  dream  of  love  be  heard  by 
listening,  lover  hearts. 

MARY.  I  dread  to  die.  I  want  to  live  with  you  a 
dreamful,  deathless  life  in  some  fair  valley  as  the 
poets  feigned. 

ALFRED.  Another  dream!  The  order  of  the  world 
is  end,  and  death  is  best.  But  who  would  look  upon 
a  skull  who  might  gaze  into  thy  moist  and  speaking 
eyes?  I  too  crave  that  valley  of  the  heart's  desire, 
where  all  is  peace  and  endless  love.  But  flowers 
must  fade  that  fresher  ones  may  bloom.  And  we 
must  live  in  our  children — they  in  theirs.  That  is 
our  immortality. 

MARY.  Our  children!  They  seem  to  sit  within  my 
heart  as  if  when  they  were  born  they  left  their 
image  there.  How  sweet,  though  suffering;  cruel 
sweet  the  night  that  Edgar  was  born.  Dost  thou 
love  me  now  as  then? 

69 


ALFRED.  More!  Love  too  must  fade,  or  grow  and 
put  forth  limbs.  Thou  hast  been  to  my  feeding  love 
a  pasture  growing  every  fragrant  herb.  Unto  my 
listening  soul  an  organ,  playing  all  notes,  all  tunes. 
The  high  ecstatic  peal  —  the  low  and  sobbing  dirge. 
The  storm  of  passion  and  the  psalm  of  peace.  Thou 
hast  been  many  women  unto  me.  I  am  as  other 
men,  and  have  naturally  a  manifold  and  changeful 
love,  but  thou  hast  kept  me  single  unto  thee  because 
in  thee  I  found  at  Life's  feast  an  every  taste  I  craved. 
I  love  thee  most  tonight. 
MARY.  The  stars  are  listening. 
ALFRED.  And  there  a  night- jar  croaks. 
MARY.  There  is  no  ill  omen  to  my  happy  heart. 
ALFRED.  Tomorrow  we  will  note  our  coming 
harvest,  and  when  the  day's  heat  is  past  you  shall 
sing  to  me  underneath  the  old  fig  tree. 
MARY.  Or  we  will  give  a  picnic  in  the  oak  grove 
near  the  spring. 

ALFRED.  The  dogs  are  barking. 
MARY.  It  is  a  welcome  from  the  outer  dark  unto 
the  shelter  of  our  home. 

SCENE  IV.  MORNING.  A  GARDEN  AND  OR 
CHARD,  WALLED  IN  BY  WILD-ROSE  HEDGE 
AND  ROWS  OF  POPLARS. 

IATILDA.  Edgar!  Edgar! 
EDGAR.  What  is  it? 

MATILDA.  Where  are  you?  [Enter  Harold] 
HAROLD.  There  is  Edgar  in  yon  fig  tree. 
MATILDA.  Edgar,  what  are  you  doing? 
EDGAR.  Gathering  figs  for  father's  breakfast.  They 
70 


are  now  cool  from  the  night.  And  these  at  the  top 
he  likes  best. 

MATILDA.  I  have  roses  here  for  mother.  We  are 
going  to  have  a  picnic  today  in  the  oak  grove. 
HAROLD.  Good!  Harold  will  have  cake  and  cream. 
EDGAR.  Sister,  take  these  figs  into  the  house.  Tell 
father  it  was  I  who  picked  them.  [Exit  Matilda] 
Harold,  Wolf  and  Beauty  killed  a  buck  this  morn 
ing.  I  heard  them  half  the  night.  You  must  not  let 
them  out. 

HAROLD.  The  moon  was  very  bright.  They  asked 
me  to.  I  passed  their  kennel  and  they  begged  me. 
Come  to  the  pond.  I  set  a  net  last  night. 
EDGAR.  No.  I  must  go  bring  in  the  buck.  He  lies 
in  the  canyon  field,  in  the  alfalfa  near  the  water 
wheel.  You  must  not  loose  the  dogs  again. 
[Exeunt  Edgar  and  Harold.  Enter  Alfred  and  Mary] 
ALFRED.    Sweetheart,   see   those   distant   peaks 
which  wall  our  valley  in.  Blue  with  the  fir  forest 
at  their  top  and  green  in  rolling  softness  lower  down. 
There  next  the  sky  lies  Peace  —  amid  the  quiet  of 
the  mountain-top:  and  here,  too,  I  find  peace.  Here 
in  my  home.  If  Care  be  alive,  he  is  hid  beyond  our 
poplar  rampart  and  our  outer  wild-rose  hedge. 
MARY.  This  is  our  kingdom. 

ALFRED.  What  is  this  fever  which  leads  men  to 
jail  themselves  between  four  walls?  To  fret  the  city 
with  their  restless  feet?  What  can  riches  buy  more 
than  enough?  Happiness  is  from  the  mind.  It  is  not 
purchaseable.  Can  riches  buy  a  sweeter  morn — 
dew  in  the  air  and  freshness  on  our  brow?  Can 
riches  buy  that  oriole's  song,  or  quail's  clear  note, 
or  give  us  more  than  plenteously  our  flocks  and 

71 


fields'  ungrudging  yield?  Power!  Vain  bubble! 
What  citizens  are  half  so  loyal  as  these  noisy  dogs? 
I  abhor  power.  It  never  hath  been  used,  but  it  hath 
been  abused.  Power  and  abuse  of  power  are  one — 
inseparable!  Nay,  give  it  to  a  god,  and  it  will  make 
him  half  a  devil.  I  have  what  power  I  crave.  The 
power  of  love.  Our  children  and  our  servitors,  my 
friends.  Still  does  a  part  govern  the  mass.  Still  comes 
misery  because  the  good  will  enforce  their  goodness, 
nor  leave  to  each  his  judgment  free.  I  would  not 
change  this  orchard's  peace,  the  music  of  the  birds 
and  brooks;  the  sense  of  kindliness  in  Mother 
Earth,  for  any  tyranny  of  power. 
MARY.  Power  could  not  make  thee  bad. 
ALFRED.  Assuredly  it  would.  If  not  in  heart,  yet 
tyrranous  in  act,  believing  that  the  act  was  best. 
Yet  naught  that's  good  is  half  so  good  as  that  each 
for  himself  may  choose. 

MARY.  Here  are  my  colonies,  where  love  is  power 
and  willing  working  is  the  order.  Gentle  bees! 
ALFRED.  Their  village  of  white  houses  underneath 
the  apple  trees  hums  with  its  ordered  industry.  How 
lulling  is  the  sound. 

MARY.  And  who  would  say  to  see  one  tiny  voy 
ager  creeping  to  her  cells  that  such  as  she  from 
dainty  cups  of  apple  blossoms,  peach  and  pear, 
from  figs  and  grapes  and  purple  alfalfa  fields,  could 
store  me  twenty  tons  of  nectar  ere  the  winter  seals 
them  down.  Our  pigeons  flock  upon  the  barns. 
ALFRED.  And  far  unto  the  dusty  road  our  apple 
trees,  in  row  on  row,  bow  heavy  with  their  freight. 
We  hear  the  clack  of  wagons  and  the  laughter  of 
the  pickers. 

72 


SONG  OF  THE  APPLE  PICKER. 

Happy  our  lot  under  blue  skies, 

Under  the  apple  boughs,  picking  the  apples. 

Golden  and  red;  perfumed  and  sweet; 

Fruit  of  the  sun;  fruit  of  the  earth. 

Gift  of  our  Mother  Earth,  kindly  and  fruitful. 

Cool  leaves  about  us,  branches  enfold  us. 

Like  robins,  those  pilferers,  we 

hide  in  the  branches. 

Happy  our  lot  under  blue  skies; 

Gay  is  our  toil  with  laughter  and  mirth. 

Light  are  our  hearts  with  jokes  and  with  singing, 

Soft  rustle  the  branches  we  pluck  of  their  gold. 

Soft  are  the  lips  of  the  maidens  we  love, 

Soft  is  the  moon  when  our  labors  are  over. 

Pleasant  the  days  with  bustle  and  song. 

Pleasant  the  quiet  of  rose-colored  eve. 

Pleasant  the  night  with  cool,  fragrant  slumber. 

Pleasant  the  night  with  music  and  dancing. 

The  moon  who  hath  lighted  us  goes  to  her  bed. 

The  dawn  paints  the  East. 

The  stars  all  grow  pale. 

The  ghost  winged  owl  flits  o'er  our  pathway. 

The  scent  of  the  apples,  the  clover,  the  leaves, 

The  scent  of  the  grass,  of  mint  and  of  earth, 

Steals  abroad  on  the  dew  and  the 

freshness  of  morning. 

Soft  are  the  lips  of  the  maidens  we  love. 

MARY.  Let  us  sit  in  the  shade  of  this  willow,  where 
the  water  in  the  irrigation  ditch  murmers  to  the 
earth  gently  like  a  lover,  saying,  I  will  woo  thee;  I 
will  make  thee  fertile.  Sweet  is  the  breeze,  bearing 

73 


smell  of  the  alfalfa  and  of  the  dry  strawberry  beds, 
smell  of  the  vines  and  the  grapes,  the  peaches  and 
the  peach  leaves. 

ALFRED.  The  breeze  is  soothing.  The  hum  of 
bees  is  soothing.  Bees  and  wasps  and  flies  and  the 
gilded  yellow-jackets  hum  in  the  air  and  swarm 
upon  the  juicy  plums  and  peaches  which  lie  scat 
tered  on  the  ground.  The  smell  of  the  ripe  apples  is 
sweet  as  roses. 

MARY.  Soothing  is  the  old  water-wheel,  cool  and 
slippery  and  dripping,  turning  slowly  in  its  labor 
daily  and  nightly;  steadily,  with  kindly  persistence 
to  refresh  the  earth;  steadily  with  gentle  drip  and 
murmur. 

ALFRED.  Ceaselessly,  steadily  as  it  pours  into  the 
trough  and  into  the  small  furrows  its  bright  blessing, 
so  hast  thou  poured  thy  life-giving  love  into  my  chan 
nels  and  my  desert  places  blossom  and  bear  fruit. 
MARY.  As  from  the  sun  the  apple  leaves  eagerly 
draw  strength  for  fragrant  blossoms  and  the  golden 
fruit,  so  from  thy  companionship  have  I  drunk 
strength.  Thou  art  my  lover  dear,  but  most  my 
friend. 

ALFRED.  Aye!  that  is  best.  Sweetheart,  is  not  this 
a  beauteous  world?  The  earth  so  bountiful  to  give 
us  bread  and  wine,  luscious  fruits  and  winter  store 
of  apples  and  of  nuts ;  wealth  for  simple  needs ;  books 
within  ourselves  and  pictures  in  the  skies.  To  our 
strong-limbed  children,  ruddy-cheeked,  we'll  leave 
an  heritage  of  lustihood  and  peaceful  minds.  Teach 
them  to  live  within  themselves;  to  cease  to  wish  to 
govern  others.  To  know  the  world  is  beautiful. 
MARY.  Alas!  Its  only  darker  spots  are  made  by  men. 
74 


ALFRED.  Teach  them  to  hate  the  tax  that's  taken 
from  another's  sweat.  To  cease  to  bend  men's  acts 
or  thoughts  by  tyranny  of  vain  majorities.  To  leave 
the  Earth's  bare  and  vacant  bosom  free  to  those 
who  first  shall  hug  and  suck  her.  Not  by  a  foolish, 
kingly  right  to  fence  her  children  out;  neither  using 
nor  suffering  to  be  used.  To  soar  toward  Freedom. 
O!  bright,  irresistible  God  —  not  Liberty,  but  Free 
dom!  I  see  the  day  when  men  shall  touch  thy 
garment's  hem.  Not  one  shall  be  his  brother's  keeper. 
All  shall  be  free  —  man  and  woman  —  mind  and 
body.  Each  by  his  strength  to  rise,  or  weakness, 
fall.  Then  shall  men  look  upon  this  present  as  gods 
who  gaze  into  a  dark  valley  from  the  peaks  of  light. 
There  in  the  darkness  far  below  creatures  grope 
about  and  wailings  rise. 

MARY.  And  we  will  teach  our  children  how 
precious  is  an  amethyst  day  like  this.  How  priceless 
is  a  sparrow's  song.  How  worthless  is  the  struggle 
and  the  fret  which  ends  but  in  a  grave.  That  poesy 
is  all  the  gold  there  is. 

ALFRED.  And  happiness  is  but  to  know  the  beauty 
of  the  world. 

MARY.  To  live  aright  the  sole  ambition. 
ALFRED.  And  righteousness  is  but  to  live  the  truth. 
Be  free  and  let  be  free.  Helping,  not  ruling!  Giving, 
not  taking!  To  garner  thought,  not  gold.  To  die 
content,  and  have  some  eyes  grow  wet.  A  memory 
of  us  kept  that's  sweet  as  lavender  and  giving  to  the 
living  strength  like  wine.  Peace  in  life.  Content  in 
death.  And  Justice  ever.  This  is  the  sum. 

[Enter  Father  Dominic] 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  Pax  vobiscum. 

75 


ALFRED.  Et  tecum  pax. 

MARY.  Good  Father  Dominic,  how  kind!  You 
bring  your  violin.  We  shall  have  revelry  of  music 
and  of  song. 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  Yes.  I  have  leave  to  stay 
two  days. 

ALFRED.  Thou  naughty  school-boy!  Leavetostay! 
And  there  thy  monastery  shines  upon  the  hill  a  rifle 
shot  away. 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  It  is  necessary  discipline,  my 
children.  Life  is  discipline. 

MARY.  True!  True!  Life's  ripened  fruit  is  a  chas 
tened  soul. 

ALFRED.  The  discipline  which  lends  a  fibre  to  the 
soul  is  self-combat. 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  Our  poor  monastic  laws,  at 
which  you  smile,  are  but  the  simple  rules  which 
sailors  bear  for  the  good  of  all.  But  it  is  truly  as 
you  say,  enforced  restraint  is  worthless  as  a  with 
ered  leaf.  True  discipline  is  the  struggle  up  to  God. 
ALFRED.  What  is  God,  Father? 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  God  is  a  name.  Man's  deep 
yearning  toward  the  all-inscrutable.  Unto  the  simple 
it  is  a  father  —  tender,  wise,  hearing  his  children's 
cries.  To  me  and  ye  God  is  the  vast,  unsounded 
mystery;  but  still  all- wise,  all-merciful. 
ALFRED.  God  is  man  seeing  himself  in  a  mirror 
and  knowing  not  his  image.  I  marvel  that  you,  a 
churchman,  dare  to  look  beyond  the  Hebrew  God. 
MARY.  Nay,  marvel  not  at  that;  but  marvel  if  our 
Father  Dominic  were  aught  but  wise  and  good. 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  The  mission  of  the  Church 
is  help.  The  God  she  offers  is  as  each  hath  sight  to  see : 
76 


Allah,  Jehovah,  or  the  Universal  Law,  but  always 
the  all-wise;  the  compassionate,  the  all -merciful. 
ALFRED.  Aye,  this  blind  and  heartless  Universal 
Law  is  yet  all- wise,  all-merciful,  compassionate. 
MARY.  And  Christ?  Was  he  the  Son  of  God? 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  And  was  he  not?  That  gentle 
one?  And  are  we  not  all  sons  of  God? 
ALFRED.  A  Gautama,  Mohammed,  Socrates? 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  All  who  have  taught  to  ren 
der  good  for  ill,  to  give  back  love  for  hate  —  to 
leave  men  free,  are  sons  of  God. 
MARY.  The  sovereignest  sons  of  man  are  sons  of 
God.  Such  creed  none  could  refuse. 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  The  Church  refuseth  none. 
She  is  very  patient. 

ALFRED.  Patience  is  life's  lesson  too,  good  friend! 
You  learn  it  as  the  prisoner  doth.  You  cannot  choose. 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  No.  If  I  be  prisoner  'tis  by 
my  will.  We  learn  to  serve,  and  serving  learn  he  is 
not  greatest  who  seems  to  rule.  We  learn  the  servant 
and  the  master  are  but  friends.  That  from  all  service 
must  be  taken  the  haughty  stain  which  pride  hath 
blacked  it  with.  We  learn  that  labor  is  the  mother 
of  all  good,  and  all  labor  is  good.  In  labor  there  are 
no  degrees  as  in  the  ribbons  of  a  puppet-made  no 
bility.  We  learn  all  men  are  brethren,  all  virtue 
justice,  all  religion  kindness. 

MARY.  Dear  friend,  thou  art  a  godly,  that's  a 
goodly,  man.  I  know  the  calm  thy  harbor  gives  thee 
in  the  tumult  of  this  worldly  sea.  I  know  the  patient 
service  of  a  chastened  heart. 

ALFRED.  Dear  friend.  You  find  peace  there  — I 
here.  Here  in  the  world.  Its  turmoil  changed  to 

77 


hum  of  bees  and  chatter  of  the  saucy  jays.  Here 
'mid  the  blooms  of  spring  and  gold  of  autumn, 
bartering  my  orchard's  gold  into  the  harder  stuff 
from  stony-hearted  cities.  Here  'mid  the  laughter 
of  young  men  and  women  gathering  earth's  fruits. 
Here  with  her  who  is  my  chosen  friend  and  mother 
of  new  generations ;  young  wrestlers  we  are,  coaching 
for  the  strifeful  sands.  Teaching  them  that  soft  and 
slender,  youthful  arms  must  hardened  be  for  blows, 
but  blows  for  justice  and  for  freedom,  the  One  and 
Indivisible.  To  live  as  we  will  and  let  men  live  as 
they  will.  To  claim  no  more  than  we  can  use.  To 
sleep  the  sleep  which  crystal  skies  pour  on  the  just. 
Thou  there ;  I  here.  I  in  my  narrow  cell,  half  free, 
thou  in  thy  narrower,  less  free.  Thou  there  amid 
the  golden  dusk;  I  here,  my  hand  within  the  hands 
of  love,  soothed  by  thy  vesper  bells,  at  peace.  Some 
what  I  envy  thee  thy  utter  peace  of  soul. 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  Ah,  God! 
MARY.  Laughter  rises  from  the  packing  house.  Is 
it  not  a  cage  of  sparrows,  finches,  parrakeets.  Hear 
that  burst  of  laughter  borne  to  us  on  the  breeze. 
Come,  let  us  go. 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  Ah,  youth!  Thou  time  of  love 
and  laughter! 

ALFRED.  Tut!  Tut!  Thou  holy  man.  What  hast 
thou  to  do  with  love? 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  What  insect  hath  not  to  do 
with  love — O,  passion  wonderful! 
MARY.  All  love  is  holy. 

FATHER  DOMINIC.  Aye,  all.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  unholy  love. 
MARY.  Come! 
78 


ALFRED.  A  pitcher  of  wine  first,  in  the  arbor.  The 
clusters  above  us  and  the  juice  before  us. 
MARY.  Yes,  and  you  are  in  time  for  a  picnic. 
Would    you   condescend   from    symphonies    and 
sonatas  to  play  dances  for  the  youth? 
FATHER  DOMINIC.  Is  it  condescension  to  give 
happiness?  Happiness  is  life's  nectar.  Blessed  is  he 
who  lifts  the  cup  to  another's  lips  even  for  a  mo 
ment.  Kindness  is  more  precious  than  jewels.  Ah, 
youth;  blessed  time  of  love  and  laughter. 

SCENE  V.  THE  PACKING  HOUSE. 

RIS.  Kate  is  in  love;  no  more  she  sings;  no 

more  we  hear  her  laughter. 

KATE.  Iris  is  in  love.  Ever  she  laughs  and 
she  chatters. 

ROSE.  Kate,  of  the  straight  black  brows,  hath  John 
forsook  thee? 

NELL.  Patience,  Kate;  soon  he'll  come  back  from 
the  city. 

KATE.  Patience,  Nell,  maybe  he  will  bring  thee  a 
ribbon. 

IRIS.  I'll  have  a  duke,  at  least,  for  my  true  sweet 
heart.  Here  in  this  box  I've  packed  this  big  red 
apple.  On  its  wrapper  I  have  written,  "This  is 
the  heart  of  Iris."  He  will  discover  this  far  off  in 
London. 

KATE.  I  now  can  see  the  duke  down  in  the  cellar — 
unpacking  apples,  far  off  in  London.  Here,  Iris,  put 
this  in.  Say,  "This  box  was  packed  by  slim-throated 
Iris." 
NELL.  Star-gazing  Iris. 

79 


ROSE,  White-handed  Iris.  With  pink  finger-tips  as 

if  picking  strawberries. 

KATE.  Sunny-haired  Iris. 

IRIS.  Flint-hearted  Iris.  (Laughter.)  I  will  load  this 

box  with  precious  freight.  Here  I  will  pack  May, 

with  the  trees  a-bloom,  bees  in  the  blossoms. 

KATE.  And  I  give  thee  April  with  soft,  weeping 

skies. 

IRIS.  Thou  art  melancholy. 

KATE.  Nay.  Rain  is  happiness  and  life.  It  makes 

the  pink  buds  start,  the  young  fruit  swell. 

NELL.  I  give  thee  hot  summer,  with  the  creak  of 

the  irrigating  wheel  and  murmur  of  water — murmur 

of  the  leaves  of  the  orchard. 

IRIS.  And  I  this  autumn  season  with  chastened  heat 

and  smell  of  dying  leaves  and  fragrance  of  apples. 

KATE.  All  this,  for  a  duke  in  smoky,  stony  London. 

WILL.  Iris,  pack  in  a  kiss;  'twill  sweeter  be  and 

redder  than  the  apples. 

IRIS.  There!  A  kiss.  It  is  done. 

WILL.  Fast  fly  your  nimble  hands;  fast  as  soft 

shuttles  and  the  continuous  rustle  of  the  paper 

wrappers  is  like  leaves  in  a  south  wind;  but  faster 

still  fly  your  tongues,  ruddy-cheeked  chatterers. 

KATE.  Thou  art  our  master  here.  Thou  art  our 

foreman.  But  at  the  set  of  sun,  down  in  the  almond 

grove,  Rose  and  a  man  I  know.  Who  there  is  master? 

(Laughter.) 

WILL.  Kate,  of  the  flashing  smile,  you  grow  too 

saucy.  Sing  to  us,  Kate.  Put  off  melancholy. 


80 


SONG. 

John's  eyes  are  dark,  his  teeth  are  white, 
All  curly  is  his  chestnut  hair. 
He  sings  the  songs  of  Love's  delight, 
And  after  him  the  maidens  stare. 

Laughing  he  speaks, 

With  glowing  cheeks, 
Kitty,  will  you  marry  me? 
Kitty,  Kitty,  O  so  pretty, 
Will  you  marry  me? 

Dick's  sire  is  old,  with  store  of  gold 
The  grumbling  water  turns  his  mill, 
And  be  it  bought  or  be  it  sold, 
Shrewd  Richard  is  the  gainer  still. 

Boldly  he  said, 

It  is  a  trade, 

Kitty,  will  you  marry  me? 
In  the  city  we'll  live,  Kitty, 
If  you'll  marry  me. 

Will's  heart  is  true  his  arm  is  stout, 
His  eyes  are  grave  and  wise; 
The  roses  twine  his  porch  about, 
His  orchard  smiling  lies. 

Under  his  breath, 

Softly  he  saith, 
Kitty,  will  you  marry  me? 
Kitty,  Kitty!  Oh,  have  pity! 
Will  you  marry  me? 

ALL.  Good!  Good!  Kate's  voice  is  coming  back 

81 


as  the  meadow-larks  do  in  the  autumn. 
IRIS.  What  did  Kitty  say? 

KATE  (Sings). 

To  quiet  marsh  the  blackbird  flies, 
On  bare  rocks  coos  the  dove; 
O  I  will  dwell  where  my  love  lies! 
I'll  mate  with  my  true  love. 

IRIS.  Which  did  she  take? 
NELL.  Yes,  which? 

KATE.  Choose  for  yourselves.  She  took  the  true 
heart  and  snug  home,  either  without  other  is  folly 
and  a  thorny  bed. 

ROSE.  Here  comes  Kate's  steadfast  beau,  half 
witted  Harold.  [Enter  Harold] 
HAROLD.  Harold  has  a  bird  for  Kate. 
WILL.  A  cock  quail. 

KATE.  Oh,  the  pretty!  His  little  head  crested.  See 
how  bright  his  eyes,  restless  and  frightened.  Let 
him  go,  Harold. 

HAROLD.  Harold  trapped  him  for  Kate. 
KATE.  Then  give  him  me.  I  will  not  keep  him. 
Ah !  How  his  heart  beats !  There,  take  thy  freedom. 
Fly  to  the  mountain-side,  to  the  thick  covert.  Fly 
to  thy  waiting  mate  and  brood  so  timid.  Once  more 
together.  Run  down  the  dusty  road,  plunge  in  the 
wild  rose;  whirr  o'er  the  gentle  brook  and  o'er  the 
orchard.   I'll  hear  thy  whistle,  shrill,  hailing  the 
morning.  Go  to  thy  freedom! 
HAROLD.  Harold  caught  him  for  thee. 
KATE.  Good  Harold.  Good  Harold.  Here  is  some 
candy. 

82 


HAROLD.  You  must  all  come  to  a  picnic  now  in 

the  oak  grove. 

WILL.  Tut!  Tut!  First  finish  your  boxes.  Now  fast 

your  hands  do  fly — faster  than  humming  birds. 

IRIS.  There  sounds  the  horn,  calling  to  pleasure. 

NELL.  Music  and  dancing. 

ROSE.  Under  the  oak  trees. 

KATE.  Soft  breezes  whispering. 

IRIS.  Stars  peeping  downward. 

WILL.  Away!  Away!         [Enter  Father  Dominic] 

ALL.  Oh,  Father  Dominic.  Good  Father  Dominic. 

Come  to  our  dancing.  Play  us  some  music. 

FATHER   DOMINIC.    Gladly  and  merrily.   Ah, 

youth!  Thou  blessed  time  of  love  and  laughter. 

SCENE  VI.  A  HILLSIDE  ARBOR:  IN  IT  STONE 
SEATS  AND  A  SQUARE  STONE  TABLE. 


ARY.   Here  lies  Father  Dominic's  violin; 

mute,  mute.  "Where  is  the  hand  which  gave 

it  soul? 

ALFRED.  And  there  beneath  the  almond  trees, 
inside  the  monastery  walls,  lies  Father  Dominic — 
mute,  mute.  But  another  shall  wake  the  violin  to 
newer  life;  and  again  the  almond  trees  shall  bloom 
and  ever  upon  earth  shall  come  Father  Dominic — 
souls  of  gentleness,  of  goodness  and  of  strength, 
teaching  kindness  and  pity.  The  religion  of  living 
and  letting  live.  [Enter  Edgar  and  Matilda] 

MARY.  My  children.  We  will  perform  rites  in 
memory  of  our  friend.  Edgar,  there  is  the  violin  he 
taught  thee  to  draw  sobs  from. 
ALFRED.  And  laughter. 

83 


MARY.  Matilda,  he  found  the  music  of  thy  voice. 
Here  we  will  remember  him. 

ALFRED.  Let  our  bodies  be  burned  and  the  ashes 
scattered  to  the  winds.  Memory  is  the  only  monu 
ment.  Give  me  not  fame  or  sculptured  tomb.  Let 
me  be  buried  in  the  hearts  I've  loved.  Let  each  but 
say  of  me,  "He  was  kind.  He  gave  me  strength.  He 
dropped  upon  my  heart  some  dew  of  happiness. 
His  faults  were  faults  of  gentleness  and  pity,  but  he 
was  iron  for  the  right."  Let  such  words  be  my 
epitaph.  I  want  no  funeral  urns  save  loving  hearts. 
I  only  ask  that  some  shall  say,  "I  loved  him." 
[Matilda  chanting.  Edgar  playing  on  the  violin  and 
occasionally  joining  the  chant.] 

Sing,  sing,  ye  little  birds,  which  come  in  Spring, 
When  buds  are  opening  and  airs  blow  warm. 
Sing,  sing,  ye  little  birds,  which  in  leafy  June 
Do  feed  your  young  amid  the  sheltering  leaves. 
Sing,  wrens,  with  tiny  bills  and  ruffled  throats, 
Sing,  robins,  twitter,  swallows,  from  your  dens. 
Sing,  finches,  in  the  cedar  trees  and  thickets  green, 
Whistle,  ye  blackbirds,  from  the  fir  tree's 
swaying  top. 

Loud  and  clear  pipe  joy,  ye  speckled  larks. 
He  is  at  rest. 

Warble  your  liquid  strain  in  the  cold  deeps 
of  the  forest, 
O,  ye  thrushes, 

Thrushes  with  spotted  breasts  and  timid  eyes. 
Ye  speckled  sparrows,  all  ye  feathered  choir, 
Warble  your  clear  and  bubbling  song. 
84 


Shy  water  ousels  which  plunge  with  ecstacy  into 
the  foamy  brook, 

And  haunt  the  silent  shady  shallows, 
And  nest  behind  the  old  mill's  dripping  veil. 
"Whistle,  ye  quail,  in  the  golden  wheat-fields, 
And  from  the  hedge-rows,  chirp,  ye  sparrows. 
Coo,  ye  doves,  upon  the  rocky  hillside, 
Mourn,  ye  ghostly  owls,  unto  the  moon. 
He  is  at  rest. 

Yet  mourn  not,  for  he  mourned  not; 

Be  ye  glad  of  living,  as  he  was  glad, 

And  mourn  not  for  the  dead  for  that  they  are  dead. 

He  is  at  rest,  but  life  and  love  live  on. 

Come,  ye  lovers,  at  evening  where  he  sleeps. 

Be  not  sorrowful.  Be  glad.  Let  the  boughs  of  the 

Almond  tree  shelter  ye. 

Let  the  leaves  kiss  your  cheeks. 

Here,  as  you  sit  silent  with  love,  he  sits  with  you. 

Hark  to  the  twitter  and  gentle  fluting  of  the 

song  sparrows; 

Hark  to  the  evening  prayer  of  the  earth  and 

the  trees  and  the  sky. 

He  is  at  rest. 

Be  ye  glad,  all  ye  living  things.  Glad  for  life 

and  glad  for  death. 

Glad  of  the  wintry  storms,  which  wrestle  with  the 

great  oaks,  so  they  toss  in  agony; 

Glad  of  the  rains  which  give  drink  to  earth; 

Glad  of  the  wild  roar  of  the  thunder  and  the 

down-pouring  flood, 

The  swaying  and  tossing  and  lashing  of  the 

trees  in  the  tempest, 

85 


The  breath  of  evening  and  the  soft-footed  breezes 
of  the  summer  night; 
The  cool  and  quiet  forest  aisles, 
Mild  and  gentle  rains  which  creep 
down  the  hillside, 

Whispering  to  the  hidden  things  as  they  go. 
Glad  of  the  flowers  which  spread 
their  carpet  on  the  hills, 
And  the  grass  which  paints  the  valleys, 
And  the  leaves  which  clothe  the  forests; 
Glad  of  Frolic  spring  which  dances  over 
the  earth  with  flowery  footsteps; 
Glad  of  the  orchards  which  burst  into  beauty 
And  deck  the  earth  as  a  bride, 
"Which  invite  their  lovers,  the  bees, 
with  lulling  hum  of  gauzy  wings; 
Glad  of  the  springtime  air  which  drifts 
in  seas  of  fragrance. 
Quarrel,  ye  noisy,  swollen  brooks; 
"Warble,  ye  summer  rivers,  over  your  pebbles; 
Murmur,  ye  tranquil  irrigation  streams. 
He  is  at  rest. 

Hang  heavy,  ye  plum  trees,  purple  and  heavy; 
Heavy,  ye  pear  trees,  drooping  and  golden; 
Heavy,  ye  peach  trees,  velvet  and  fragrant, 
Almond  and  fig  trees  and  vines  heavy  with  clusters, 
Yellow-leaved  vines,  with  clusters  purple  and  ruby, 
Goblets  of  wine  for  marrying  and  christening. 
O,  wise  Mother  Earth.  Oh,  fields,  fat  and  fruitful; 
Oh,  kind  Mother  Earth.  Oh,  forest  and  rivers. 
Oh,  Beautiful  Earth,  silent  and  patient. 

He  is  at  rest. 
86 


Blow  out,  ye  wintry  storms,  and  swell  your  cheeks, 

Strip  all  the  earth  to  nakedness. 

Peal,  organ  of  the  riven  sky  and  of  the  cataract. 

Wail,  O  melancholy  harp  among  the 

leafless  fingers  of  the  trees. 

Die,  ye  butterflies,  ye  grasshoppers, 

Your  chirp  is  stilled.  The  earth  is  dead. 

Sleep,  ye  wise  and  golden  bees. 

But  yet  again  the  buds  shall  swell, 

The  green  shall  leap  upon  the  earth, 

The  air  shall  thrill  with  songs  of  birds, 

The  peach  tree  shall  blush  pink, 

The  wrens  shall  come  again. 

Again  the  blossoms  sweet  shall  hum 

with  honey  labor  of  the  bees, 

Forever  he  shall  rest. 

ALFRED.  Oh,  Life  eternal. 

MARY.  Oh,  Love  eternal. 

ALFRED.  Blessed  are  we  in  life  and  love  and 

peace. 

MARY.  Blessed  is  Life. 

ALFRED.  Blessed  is  Death. 

EDGAR  and  MATILDA  (chanting).  He  is  at  rest. 

He  is  at  rest.  Peace  and  forever.  Let  him  rest. 

ALFRED.  Hark  to  the  vesper  bell. 

MARY.  The  wren  warbles  his  evening  prayer. 

SONG  OF  THE  WREN. 

I  love  thee.  I  love  thee.  O,  little  brown  mate!  I  love 
thee  so  that  my  heart  swells  into  my  throat.  Year 
after  year  I  and  my  fathers  have  reared  their  brood 
here  under  the  roof  peak.  Here,  where  the  roses 

87 


scramble  and  toss  their  heads.  Here  you  and  I 
have  raised  our  little  ones  from  the  beautiful,  little, 
delicate  eggs,  so  dear.  Here  I  have  sung  to  thee  in  the 
dewy  mornings  and  in  the  purple  evenings.  Here 
where  the  roses  nodded  to  me.  The  roses  are  gone. 
Come,  let  us  fly  away  to  the  Southland,  to  the  land 
of  the  sun — ever  fair.  We  and  our  children.  Come! 
Come!  Come!  We  all  together.  Come  close  to  me, 
my  little  brown  mate.  I  am  singing  to  thee.  I  love 
thee.  I  love  thee.  In  the  springtime,  when  the  flower- 
embroiderers  are  abroad  and  the  breath  of  the  night 
is  full  of  spice — in  the  springtime  we  shall  return 
to  the  nest  of  our  love. 


END  OF  THE  THIRD  PART 


OF  THIS  BOOK  FIVE  HUNDRED  COPIES  HAVE 

BEEN  PRINTED  AT  THE  ELSTON  PRESS 

NEW  ROCHELLE,  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCCIV 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO—*-      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-month  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation 

Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


KE7.  CIR. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  40m,  3/78  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


385^54 


1  <  •  r 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


